


Scene of the Crime

by sofia_gigante



Series: Scene of the Crime [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Arthur and Eames' complex working relationship, Begging, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Differences, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Inception, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Vacation, con games, consequences of inception, long con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“He knows something happened. He’s looking for it.”</i>
</p><p>In order to stop Robert Fischer from developing the technology to identify the people who incepted him three years before, Eames and Arthur craft a complicated con to steal Robert's method before he goes public. Targeting Robert while on holiday, Eames creates the perfect mask to lure Robert into his confidence. However, the more Eames gets to know the man Robert has become since the Inception, the more Eames wonders if he’s truly capable of destroying the life that Robert’s struggled so hard to build for himself…and whether the feelings he’s having for Robert are just part of the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. {Eames} Relocation

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank my amazing, dedicated, thorough, brilliant beta reader Castillon02 enough. Without her, this story wouldn't be here. Even just knowing one person was interested in reading this was enough to get this beast finished, and her expert help polished the rough patches and made it presentable to the outside world.
> 
> I also want to extend an extra-special "thank you" to my spouse for his encouragement and patience. He was my first sounding board for this story, and helped me work through some of the biggest snarls of the first (five) drafts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You know as well as I do, men like us don’t have friends.”_

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Eames.”

“Is that so?” Eames gave a dry laugh and looked Jacob Tanner in the eye. It was hard to in the position he was in, but he managed to hold his gaze. He pretended he wasn’t being held up by two well-muscled thugs, wasn’t trapped in a back-alley in Tangier at midnight with no hope of back-up. It was just a friendly conversation with an old friend.

“Yeah, you are,” Tanner said. “They sent me instead of Brighton to collect. He still hasn’t forgiven you for Cape Town.” Tanner flexed his fingers, his brown leather gloves glossy with blood. He was tall and dark-haired, all wiry muscle under his button-down shirt and slacks. Once upon a time, he had been just Eames’ type—with that chiseled jaw and slightly crooked nose—but that had been long, long ago. Three continents, two careers, and five years, to be exact. A lot could change in that span of time—the man who once had your back now here to collect up front.

Eames spat, emptying his aching mouth of the coppery flood Tanner’s last punch had unleashed. “Now, you know as well as I do that was his own bloody fa—”

Eames’ words died in a groan as Tanner’s fist slammed into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Eames struggled to breathe, to push past the fear throbbing through him faster than the pain. True, Tanner wasn’t a fucking sadist like Brighton—known as “The Tooth Fairy” when he wasn’t in earshot—but he was no masseuse either. Eames had once watched him methodically break every bone in a man’s leg, just because he’d almost run into him with his bicycle.

“It really was his fault. Wish I’d had a camera.” Tanner chuckled, as easily as if they’d been sitting across from each other in a bar. Then his soft expression hardened back into a frown, his tone going flat. “But that’s enough memory lane. You know that you’re over three days late with your payment to Mr. LeMaire.”

“I have the money,” Eames protested, putting as much desperate sincerity into his tone as he could muster. If Eames could just get these goons to loosen their grip…

The thugs tightened their hold on him instead. Tanner gave a long sigh. He slowly pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his pants pockets and began to slip them on over his gloves. “Don’t lie to me, Eames. I know you like to think you’re this amazing con man, but I know your tells. You know I hate it when people lie.”

“I’m not lying, you stubborn prat!” Eames’ entire body had gone hot, electric, but he managed to keep his head. Fine. Tanner wasn’t going to buy sincere, maybe he’d buy angry. “Look, I know I’m late, but I’m not fucking stupid! You think I’d really fuck with a man like LeMaire?”

“You did when you—”

“It was an honest mistake! Crossed communication between the higher-ups.” Eames sighed. “He understands this, which is why he gave me a chance to make amends. Come on. If he really wanted to make an example of me, I’d be fucking face-first in the drink, wouldn’t I be?”

Tanner was relaxing by increments…which meant his lackeys’ grip on Eames was, too.

“Look, I pulled some strings, called in some favors, and I have more than enough to pay LeMaire back, with a nice little apology bonus,” Eames said easily. “Yes, it took a bit longer than I had hoped, but I promise, it’ll be so very worth it.”

Tanner looked at him, hard, reading Eames’ expression. “All right. I believe you, Eames.”

Eames sagged in relief. “About bloody time,” he muttered. “Now, if you’ll just get your goons off of me, I can escort you gentlemen to my flat so I can pay.”

“I wish it was that simple,” Tanner said, genuine remorse in his tone. “But Mr. LeMaire was very clear that he wanted to make an impression on you, Eames. He doesn’t like having his generosity repaid with tardiness. You’ve gotta have some damage to show, or it’s going to be my ass. I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal.” He nodded to his muscle. “Boys? Go a little easy on him. No permanent damage.”

Well, fuck. That was unacceptable.

Eames forced himself to relax as the thugs shifted their grip, letting go of his arms so they could push him back with their forearms. Eames could see what they were planning, an old-fashioned against-the-wall beating. Perfect.

Before the first one could land a punch, Eames had grabbed the bigger one’s wrist, and used the leverage to push himself sideways against the alley wall. The two men fell against each other as Eames slid out from their grasp, and before they could orient themselves Eames lashed out with a vicious kick to the back of the closest one’s knee. It didn’t break, but it dropped him hard with a cry. The other—the one Eames had grabbed—hadn’t even found his balance before Eames dispatched him with a quick punch to the throat, leaving him gasping and spluttering on the ground.

He turned to Tanner, whose face had gone pale as ash. He held up his fists, as if ready to box Eames, but by his shrunken, defensive stance Eames knew the fight was going out of him. The thugs might not have ever seen Eames in a hand-to-hand fight, but Tanner had. He knew what he was getting into, and without back-up, he was well and truly fucked.

“I’ll have to admit, I’m disappointed, Tanner. I thought we were friends,” Eames said calmly.  

“You know as well as I do, men like us don’t have friends.” Tanner snorted.

“You’re right.” Eames lashed out. He feinted with his left, drawing Tanner’s block, so he could jab in on the right, clocking Tanner hard across the face. Tanner grunted and tried to retaliate, but he was too slow to block Eames’ next punch to his side. He cried out, dropping to his knees. Eames contemplated slamming Tanner’s face into his knee—breaking his nose—but he decided against it. They had been friends once, after all.

Then, looking around to make sure all three men were down, he walked backwards out of the alleyway. Only when he was sure that they couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore did Eames break into a dead run. He’d bought himself ten, maybe fifteen minutes before Tanner came to his senses and tracked him down again. Which meant it was time to leave town.

Damn. Just when he was really starting to like Tangier.

He made it to his rented flat in five minutes, and as soon as he flipped on the light he made a bee-line for his closet. He threw off the piles of dirty clothes and musty books to reveal a trapdoor hidden under a scrap of old rug. He lifted it and pulled out his emergency bag—all ready with a freshly forged passport, two credit cards in the same name, seven different types of major international currency, two changes of clothes, a toiletry kit, a handgun, a smartphone and three different SIM cards for it, a Swiss army knife, three power bars and two bottles of water—and slung it over his shoulder. He scanned the apartment for anything else he’d want to take, but really, there was nothing. No photos, no pieces of art, no little memento to remind him of his six months in Tangier. It’d been the same when he’d left Mombasa, or Cape Town, or Abidjan, or any other city he’d spent more than a few weeks in. Every time he started getting comfortable, something would happen, and he’d be on the move again.

He grabbed his jacket and a beat-up baseball hat and headed out the door, tossing the keys into the room before he slammed it shut behind him. He’d already paid through the end of the month, so he wasn’t cheating the old lady who ran the building. It was one thing to steal from a gangster, and another to steal from an elderly widow.

Eames tried to keep himself looking casual—just another tourist out late in Morocco—as he made his way to one of the main streets and flagged himself a cab. For all he knew, LeMaire had sent more than one clean-up crew after Eames. He’d actually be a little surprised if he hadn’t—Eames owed LeMaire an embarrassing amount of money.

What was even more embarrassing was how Eames had come to be in the Frenchman’s debt. It was supposed to have been an easy job, a little con for one of the smaller bosses looking to undermine some upstart’s new gambling ring. What he hadn’t realized was that the upstart was actually working for LeMaire, who had established himself as the authority in Tangier. Eames had no idea how the staff at LeMaire’s casino had been able to identify Eames’ forged chips, never mind how they’d been able to trace the con back to him. He was still suspicious that it’d been a set-up, though Eames knew better than to try to rat out his client to LeMaire. That would just cause more trouble for him.

He’d been lucky LeMaire had believed Eames’ story that he was new in town, hadn’t meant offense, and could definitely make reparations—though the Frenchman had demanded them in a ridiculously small window of time. Eames had been slightly hopeful he could make it happen, but when his luck had turned at the tables, he’d known he was in trouble. He’d been going all over town to every gambling den and casino, trying to change his luck, but had just dug the hole deeper. He should’ve just left town as soon as LeMaire had let him go.

See, this was what happened every time he tried to set up roots. He always cocked it up somehow.

The ride to the airport was uneventful, and he managed to secure a cheap seat on a flight to nearby Lisbon. He had to part with his weapons in the men’s room, but there was no way he was going to get them past security. It made him even more nervous to be unarmed as he made his way through the checkpoints, and he didn’t breathe any easier until his flight was taxiing down the runway.

It had all happened so quickly. Less than an hour from when he’d been shaken down in an alleyway, he was ordering a scotch and soda from the flight attendant, on his way to the new chapter of his storied life. He sat back in his seat with a sigh. He hadn’t even had a chance to buy a paperback at the airport. He should start adding one to his getaway bag. The flight would give him a couple of hours to think, at least, plan his new course of action. Lisbon was just an escape hatch; from there he could go anywhere.

Since he’d left his parents’ home at sixteen to join the service, he’d never stayed in one place long. First, it was the army moving him around, and then after his three years in London with Project Somnacin, he’d bounced from country to country, continent to continent, chasing opportunities wherever they arose. He’d leave when he got bored, or the money dried up, or something better came up somewhere…or his welcome wore out. That seemed to be happening more and more these days.

But, where would he go this time? Now with this debacle, Morocco made, what, _seven_ countries he could never return to? Not counting the ones he didn’t _want to_ return to. Money was becoming thin again, and his list of friends was even thinner. He supposed he could see if he could convince Yusuf to venture out from his little den in Mombasa to meet him somewhere for a bit, but Eames knew how hard it was to get him to leave his regular clients, even for a few days. He’d probably say no. Eames sighed. How long had it been since he’d actually spent time with anyone for the fun of it?

No, the smart thing to do when his funds were so low was to take on another job. Something that utilized his full range of skills, hopefully. Extraction jobs were becoming harder and harder to come by since the dream-tech boom had begun last year, both because extractors were being snapped up by biotech companies for R&D,  and because more and more people were going through the training against extraction. Dream-share was becoming so commonplace that somnivid arcades were popping up in major cities all over the world. Brave new fucking world.

The attendant brought his drink, and as Eames sipped on it he spied the latest copy of _The Economist_ in the pocket of the seat in front of him. It wasn’t his first choice for reading, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, eh? He scanned over the small articles near the front of the magazine, none of them able to hold his attention for more than a few seconds…until his eyes landed on a small picture of a familiar face. Eames’ stomach did a flip, an unexpected jolt going through him.

“I’ll be damned,” Eames whispered to himself. “Hello there, Robby.”

Robert Fischer looked different. Older than three years should’ve aged him. Tired, pale, his sharp, blue eyes slightly red along the rims. This was definitely a candid shot someone had snapped of him, as there was no way the polished prince that Eames had known Robert to be would’ve allowed himself to be seen so disheveled. Unless he’d changed more than Eames thought. A lot could change in three years.

_Not those cheekbones, though. Or those full lips. Or that long, graceful neck of his…_

Of all the marks Eames had studied for a job, Fischer had been by far the most…interesting. Between the weeks of research to learn about his past and then infiltrating his company to learn about his present, Eames almost felt like Fischer was an old friend at this point. In a warped, one-sided way, true, but Eames had learned much of what made him tick, what made him happy…what his deepest pain was. You didn’t forget a man whose head—whose very soul—you’d cracked open. Eames liked to imagine that he’d helped Fischer, guided him towards a cathartic reconciliation with his cold, domineering father. Looking at this new picture of Fischer, though, Eames wasn’t so sure anymore.  

Eames looked at the article beside the photo, where the headline read “Fischer New Player in Dream-Tech Field.”

_Oh, really?_ Eames’ pulse sped up as he began to read:

_“Having been completely silent in the two years since he dissolved Fischer-Morrow, Robert Fischer has finally reappeared—in a completely unexpected venture. His fledgling company, Pinwheel Enterprises, based out of Bangkok, is currently developing something they call Somnus Shield. Though details remain under wraps for now, Fischer says it’s a revolutionary process that utilizes the same mechanics of shared dreaming that have previously only been used for dream therapy, military training and somnivid entertainment modules...”_

By the time Eames had finished reading the piece—twice—his heart was hammering. This…this was not good.

Fischer knew.

Somehow, Fischer _knew_.

Fischer knew that someone had been in his head. Why else would he be pouring his energy, his fortune, into something as strange and contested as dream-tech? This…this wasn’t a sound business strategy, this was _personal_.  If Fischer was actually able to pull this off, Eames would have a lot more to worry about than a few angry crime bosses. So would everyone else in the extraction game, or who had ever been a part of it. Yusuf, Cobb, Ariadne, Arthur…

_Arthur._

The wheels began to turn in Eames’ head. He hadn’t really spoken to Arthur in almost two years. Not since Arthur has offered him a job at his new dream-tech firm…and Eames had turned him down. He’d had enough R&D for one lifetime with Project Somnacin, and besides, Eames didn’t really like San Francisco. Too many hills, too much fog, too many tourists. Since then, Arthur had become one of the major players in the growing dream-tech field, especially since he had a big, secret backer with extremely deep pockets. He was as legitimate as they came, now—wealthy, connected, and respectable.

Or was he? Once a con man…

Think, Eames, think.

By the time the plane touched down in Lisbon, Eames had the first shadow of a plan in his head. If he played his cards right, he just might be able to find a way throw Fischer off their scent while also securing his own financial future. No more scraping by, just a nice, steady stream of modest income. Find some quiet little corner of the world and live like a king. Maybe Bali. He’d always liked Bali.

When the plane touched down in Lisbon, Eames didn’t even leave the airport. He just made his way to the ticket counter and bought a one-way ticket for San Francisco.

It was time he paid his old friend a surprise visit.


	2. {Arthur} Checkered Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No, darling. This isn’t a job interview.”_

“Venti Americano, extra shot, extra hot, no room for cream.” Arthur ordered his coffee, barely looking up from his smartphone. He absently handed his credit card to the barista, paying more attention to the email he was reading. Seemed like there was some sort of hitch with the compound for Memory Jog—a potential procedure for Alzheimer’s Patients and others with memory disorders—and Arthur would be needed in the lab to sign off on the order of some other components. He checked the time on his phone. If he hurried, he could be there before his meeting started in twenty minutes.

“Venti Americano for Arthur!” another barista called out, and Arthur looked up from his phone long enough to push his way through the morning coffee crowd to the counter. He searched the line-up of various-sized white cups for the one with his name on it…and stopped short.

There was a red poker chip sitting on the lid of his coffee cup.

His heart slammed into his ribs and he whipped his head around to search the crowded Starbucks. A message like this could only have come from one person.

Eames was sitting at a table by the door, pretending to read the _San Francisco Chronicle_. It was like seeing a fucking ghost. He looked the same as ever—same slicked back hair, same threadbare clothes, same casually smug expression. Seeing him framed by the café’s window—the gorgeous view of the Presidio park that had become a part of Arthur’s everyday life—was deeply unsettling. Arthur’s checkered past had come back to haunt him.

Eames looked up over the edge of the paper long enough to catch Arthur’s eye. Then he folded the paper, slapped it down on the table, and picked up his own cup of coffee before exiting the café without so much as a second glance at Arthur.

Arthur was frozen in place, déjà vu washing over him like cold rain. One minute he was on his way to work, the next he’s seeing Eames sitting as casually as you please in his morning café. Like something out of a dream…

As Arthur strode out of the crowd, he pocketed his smartphone in his jacket, trading it for the die he still always carried. Without breaking stride, he pulled out the die and rolled it across the counter by the door, his eyes glued to it to make sure it came up the way it always did—four. He scooped it back up, ran his fingers across the surface, feeling for the dents, the scratches, convincing himself that yes, he was awake, this was reality—a reality where Eames was standing not more than ten feet away outside, admiring a statue of Eadweard Muybridge.

“Lovely place to set up shop, this is,” Eames mused as Arthur came into earshot. He motioned with his coffee cup to the meticulously landscaped garden that surrounded the Presidio office buildings—complete with burbling streams, weeping willows, and meandering paths. The dome of the Palace of Fine Arts loomed in the distance, lending a touch of old-world, European elegance to the scene. It was why Arthur had chosen this as the location for Yume Dream-Tech. Well, that and the close proximity to Lucasfilm. The nerd in him just couldn’t get over that.

Part of him still couldn’t believe he’d actually acquired enough capital to build here, in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of one of the most expensive cities in the world.  Three years ago, when he’d pitched the idea of a legitimate dream-tech firm to Saito, he’d imagined a small operation: two other employees, maybe three, in an office in a medical building right between a dentist and an optometrist. Now, he oversaw a staff of fifty in a facility with four working labs. They even had a satellite office in Baltimore that worked in conjunction with John Hopkins University to research the long-term neurological effects of dream-share. Last he’d checked, Yume was number seven on Forbes’ new list of top ten dream-tech firms in the U.S.

Hell. Fucking _Forbes_ had a list of dream-tech firms now.

How quickly times had changed from the old days, when dream-share was just a military secret or a weapon of corporate espionage. Sure, Arthur had secretly loved his life as a point man—the thrill of the job, the challenge of the game—but there came a time in every man’s life when he was ready to settle down and _build_ something for himself. Arthur had been feeling the itch—and had been collecting the capital—long before the Fischer job, hoping to put his education and experience to better use. However, with a lost and mourning Cobb to watch over, Arthur hadn’t had the heart to abandon him to start his new life. The Fischer job had set Arthur free as much as it had Cobb, and it had also introduced him to his most generous investor.

It wasn’t Proclus. It was Saito himself. His personal—and secret—investment had given Yume the traction it had needed to make a strong start in its first year. In exchange, Saito had a front-line general in the ever-growing dream-tech field. Saito had seen first-hand just how powerful dream-share could be.

Arthur suspected that not all of Saito had returned from Limbo. Saito had always exuded an aura of grace and power, but when Arthur had visited him in his private offices to present his idea, he’d seemed quieter...smaller. On the last day of their meetings, Arthur had caught him intently studying a detailed screen painting of Edo castle, and when Arthur had asked him about the history of it, all Saito had said was that it was a “house filled with regret.” Saito’s interest in Yume was his way of trying to exert some sort of symbolic control over the events of the past, or perhaps even his own mind. Not that they ever spoke of it.

In fact, Arthur had barely seen Saito in person since he’d successfully made his pitch. Or anyone from the Fischer job, for that matter. He’d gotten a couple of Christmas cards from Cobb, and a weak promise to bring the kids up for a visit, but Arthur didn’t blame him one bit for shielding his fragile new life from his turbulent past. Arthur had tried to recruit both Yusuf and Ariadne for Yume, but Yusuf had said he preferred to remain “freelance,” and Ariadne had taken an offer with a new somnivid company in London. Something about all the freedom of creation without the moral ambiguity. As for Eames...

“Makes me wish I’d taken you up on your offer,” Eames continued, as easily as if they were picking up a conversation they’d left off two years before.

“Is that why you’re here? You’ve changed your mind?” Arthur blinked rapidly in surprise. Eames had made it exceedingly clear that he had no interest in being tied down by one job, no matter how well-paying or interesting. What was the term he’d used? Golden yoke? “I don’t think we have any openings at this time, but I can see—”

Eames’ exasperated look stopped Arthur short. “No, darling. This isn’t a job interview.” His gaze gave a quick, telling dart around before meeting Arthur’s. “Shall we take a stroll?”

“I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” Arthur said brusquely, “and some things I have to do before. Can we do this around noon? I can squeeze you in before a lunch I have to—”

Eames gave an exaggerated sigh and opened his jacket to pull out a small square of paper. He unfolded it, and held it up for Arthur to see that it was a torn-out page from a glossy magazine. Curiosity beating out his annoyance, Arthur snatched it from out of Eames’ hand and gave it a quick glance.

“You read _The Economist?_ Good for you,” Arthur said, a little sharply. “You trying to sell me a subscription?”

“Just look at the bloody picture in the corner,” Eames said quietly.

Arthur looked. “It’s Robert Fischer. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s made _The Economist_ …” His words trailed off as he read the headline: “Fischer New Player in Dream-Tech Field.”

His stomach clenched uneasily. This wasn’t entirely new news to him. He’d been keeping tabs on Fischer’s firm since it had appeared on his radar, but in over a year of digging, he still hadn’t been able to nail down any real details. Fischer had kept his work tightly under wraps, even going so far as to obfuscate which channels he was buying his compound chemicals and medical supplies through. All Arthur could discern was that he was running a small operation out of Thailand, and that it was getting smaller as he let employees go one at a time.

Surprisingly loyal former employees. Even the ones Arthur had interviewed under the guise of potentially hiring them for Yume had kept tight-lipped about Fischer’s projects, saying they’d signed strict non-disclosure agreements. No matter what Arthur promised, he was met with a wall of silence. Even without the clout of Fischer-Morrow behind him, Robert Fischer’s name still inspired fear, and that fear had kept his secrets...until now.

Whatever Fischer was working on couldn’t be good for Arthur, especially if _Eames_ felt the need to crawl out of God-knows-what corner of the world he’d been hiding in to bring it to his attention. Arthur looked up to Eames for confirmation, but he was already walking away down one of the little cobblestoned paths.

“Shit,” Arthur muttered to himself. As he reluctantly followed Eames, he pulled his smartphone out of his pocket to text his assistant that he’d be running late for the meeting.

“He’s been off the radar since he dissolved Fischer-Morrow, but now, it seems Robert’s ready to join the real world again,” Eames said casually. “Or rather, the dream world.” He slowed his gait, giving Arthur the chance to read the article while still walking. “Read his quote in the second paragraph.”

“‘Shared dreaming is a powerful new technology with a myriad of useful applications,’” Arthur read out loud, “‘however, as with all things, in the wrong hands this tool can become a weapon. Pinwheel is devoted to finding new ways to help safeguard against misuse, and if need be, develop the means of tracing the untraceable to allow victims of dream invasion some sort of legal recourse…’” Arthur looked up at Eames, the knot in his belly tightening, and then looked around rapidly to make sure no one was in earshot. “He knows something happened. He’s looking for it.”

Eames nodded. “He’s pouring what’s left of his fortune into trying to discover what happened to him.”

“That’s not possible.” Arthur shook his head, dread mounting. “There’s no way to be able to trace the effects of shared dreaming.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Arthur!” Eames snapped. “I know your own little company is working on developing your own version of tracing technology.”

Alarm shot through Arthur, hot and tight. “How did you—”

“George Littleman on your marketing team has a weakness for tattooed men in tank tops and Moscow mules. He’ll be in late today.” Eames gave Arthur coy smile. “Whatever. What matters is what Fischer’s doing. If he can do this, if extractors could be positively identified in a subject’s dream, then they could be prosecuted.”

“Eames,” Arthur dropped his voice, “what jury is going to condemn a person who has been identified in a _dream_? There’s no legal precedent, nothing. Dream-sharing may be growing in respectability and popularity, but we’re a long way from using it for actual law enforcement.”

“You really been out of the game so long you’ve forgotten how this works?” Eames fixed him with a pointed stare. “Your buddy Nash didn’t get a judge and jury, did he?”

Arthur fell silent. He knew all too well how quickly corporations worked to clean up after failed extraction attempts. If they knew that even the successful ones could be traced…

“What makes you think Fischer can pull it off? He’s not educated  in neurology or biochem—”

“Neither are you!” Eames scoffed. “A master’s in architecture doesn’t exactly make you a geni—”

“And,” Arthur raised his voice to drown out Eames, “he has nowhere near the level of shared dreaming experience that anyone else in this field has.” He gave Eames a pointed look. “He’s in over his head. I mean, look at him. Judging from this picture, he’s completely falling apart.”

“Look at his eyes.”

Arthur looked. “A little red, a little tired.”

“A little crazed,” Eames pointed out. “He’s utterly obsessed. Think about it. This is _his_ project, _his_ baby, his first endeavor out in the world without daddy Warbucks holding his hand. Everything he has, everything he wants to be is riding on this. That idea is going to drive him. You know why?”

“Because we put that idea there,” Arthur said, slowly.

“And he has a leg up he doesn’t even quite realize. His brain is wired for this stuff now, partially because we laid the tracks.”

“Out of anyone in the world, he may be able to figure this out,” Arthur murmured, realization sinking in. Fischer did have some experience in dream-share. He’d been ready for them when they had entered his dream, which meant that somehow, somewhere, he’d been trained against extraction. Who knew for how long, or what else he might know? Now, in addition, he had the traces of the inception buried somewhere in his mind, the planted idea that had manifested as this upstart dream-tech firm. Without meaning to, Arthur had created his perfect competitor.

“And when he does figure this all out, guess who he’s going to point the finger at?” Eames said.

Arthur breathed in deeply through his nose, his hands suddenly clammy. This could be bad on so, so many levels. Not just for Eames, or Cobb, or Ariadne…for Saito. And if things got bad for Saito, then things would get very bad for Arthur, and not just for his company.

“Do you have a plan?” Arthur asked quietly.

“I do.”

“Who’s bankrolling this operation?”

“Actually,” Eames said, and he gave him a slow, almost apologetic smile. “I was hoping you would.”

Arthur balked. “You should have plenty of capital of your own after the Fischer job alone.”

Eames looked away, uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, some of us have expenses.”

“Some of us have gambling addictions.”

Eames snapped back, his eyes suddenly cold. “Yeah, well, not all of us like selling our freedom for security.”

“It’s called investing,” Arthur answered coolly, “wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He stood. “Look, I can see why you’re worried. But, really, I don’t have the time to follow you to Bangkok to chase a hunch. I quit field work a long time ago. I have my hands full here—”

“Holding Saito’s hand, I get it.” Eames waved his hand dismissively. “How is old Saito-san these days, huh? Must be nice when your company becomes the single most powerful energy provider in the world.” Eames fixed Arthur with a mock sympathetic look. “Would be such a shame if something were to happen to spoil that, cut off the funding to this sweet little fiefdom you’re building for yourself—”

“Don’t.” Arthur raised a warning finger. He could feel his blood pressure rising. God, what was it about Eames’ goading that could piss him off so easily?

“All I’m saying is that you have more to think about than your schedule here. Besides, if we can see first-hand what Fischer is up to, it might give this little venture of yours a leg-up.”

“Eames, don’t even dare suggest that I’d stoop to steal—”

“Just saying you’ve done worse things for worse people; you might as well use those impressive skills of yours for your own interests.” Eames leaned forward, and the sincerity on his face was almost believable. “But, if you don’t want to think about yourself, then think about Cobb. Think about Ariadne and Yusuf. You really want to put them at risk, just because you didn’t want to admit I might be right?”

Arthur bristled. “That’s not why I don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. If I were Cobb, or Traynor, or Maraj, you would already have two plane tickets in hand. But it’s just me. Eames. And to be honest, you’re the last person I want to work alone with.”

“So why come to me at all?”

“Because I cannot think of a single person in the world who can do what you do better.” Eames’ cool gaze bored into Arthur, sharp in its honesty.

Arthur was downright shocked. “Really?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried, for three years. You’re still the best damn point man there is.” Eames sighed, and then fixed Arthur with a level look. “Five days. That’s all I’m asking from you.”

Arthur turned his back on Eames and looked out at the garden, buying a few seconds to roll the information over in his mind with some measure of privacy. This was a huge risk. Since creating Yume he’d essentially gone legitimate. He’d kept his nose so clean he hadn’t even gotten a parking ticket in three years. By following Eames on this mad little quest, Arthur would back on the wrong side of the law. He could lose it all if they got caught. However, if Fischer could pull off what Eames thought he could, then all of this could come to a bitter end anyway…and take down a whole lot of other people with him.

_Besides…this would be a chance to look at this new competition first-hand._ The dark thought flitted into Arthur’s mind. _You’ve stolen plenty of ideas for other corporations…why not do it for yourself?_

“I’ll do it on three conditions.” Arthur didn’t even turn to Eames as he held up three fingers for him to see. “You keep Ariadne out of this.” He put down his index finger. “You keep Cobb out of this.” He put down his ring finger, leaving up his middle finger. “You don’t ask me to help you with anything ever again.”

“Deal.”


	3. {Robert} Grindstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When’s the last time you’ve slept a full eight hours or more...without the PASIV?”_

The smell of rain on pavement. Check.

The swish of cars at rush hour. Check.

The sense of urgency. Always.

Robert opened his eyes. He was standing on the same Manhattan block he had every day for almost a year now. The same downpour. The same billboards. The same cars.

Therein lay the problem.

Here came the taxi. He got in, as he did every time, though by now he knew exactly what was going to happen.

“Third and Market. Snappy.”

A second figure ducked into the vehicle. Robert held his breath. Maybe this time—

The man turned to Robert as he shut the car door. His face was as blank and plastic as a mannequin’s.

Robert bit back a curse. He forced himself to focus, stick to the script. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, I thought it was free,” the figure next to him said in his smooth, London accent.

“Well, it’s not!” Robert concentrated, trying to draw details from the hair first. Blond…no, brown…

“Maybe we could share.”

“Maybe not. Can you pull over—”

There, the second man came up over the front seat, his face just as featureless. Robert switched focus. This face was always a bit easier—he had confirmed a receded hairline, a sparse mustache, and possible Asian features, though he wasn’t sure. He focused on the nose, trying to determine thickness, thinness…but nothing stuck. Again.

He looked at the man next to him. He swore he saw a flicker of a smirk, a fullness of lips, a crinkle around light-colored eyes, but the details faded as quickly as they came.

“There’s five hundred dollars in there,” Robert sighed, “and the wallet’s worth more than that. So you might as well drop me at my stop.”

Fuck. It wasn’t working. Frustration welled in Robert’s chest, obliterating the fragile grip Robert had on the specifics. The face in front of him went completely blank right before his eyes, a split second before the gunshots started and he was forced down onto the car seat with a jacket over his head.

After that it was all about listening. He practically had the staccato of the gunfight memorized by now, punctuating by the squeal of tires and the crunch of metal as the driver rammed the car back and forth.

He heard one of the kidnappers yell a word, and he tried to catch it again, but it was strange—“seams” or “beams” or something like that—and it made no sense in context. Finally, the car was clear, and the voices spoke again.

“You all right?” the same voice asked. It was frantic, obviously masculine, but young.

“Yeah, I’m OK, I’m OK. Fischer’s OK unless he gets car sick.” This…this sentence here. Such a distinctive voice—the British accent lightening the deep tones. Robert knew that if he heard this voice again, he could pinpoint it to its owner. This voice was key.

“Say-toe?” Another nonsense sound. Robert tried to clarify it, but even after hearing it close to a hundred times, it still wasn’t any clearer. Goddamn it.

“I’m done!” he cried out, frustration boiling out of him as he sat up. “I’m done, fucking done. Dr. Sharp, pull the plug!”

“Come on, Mr. Fischer!” a deep, female voice called from outside the cab. “Let’s try the hotel stage of your dream. It’s a little less stressful, gives us more faces to work with. I think we’ll have some luck with this compound Lilian cooked up—”

“It’s not going to work!” Frustration was becoming anger, even as he could _feel_ the environment around him shifting, the leather car seat under him becoming a hotel bar stool, the light brightening behind his shut eyes, the sounds of gunfire fading into the drone of conversation. The fact that Dr. Sharp could even create this dream of Robert’s with such clarity should be a testament to the progress they’d made in the past months. It just...just wasn’t enough.

“Mr. Fischer? Mr. Fischer, what are you doing? I need you to calm down.” Dr. Sharp’s voice was edged with barely checked exasperation. “You know if you start getting upset, you’re going to—”

It wasn’t a barstool under him anymore. It was a wooden chair. The chatter of voices had become the dull roar of a distant city street, and the dim hotel light was now warm sunlight filtering through a condo window. He was sitting at a dining room table across from his colleague, Dr. Victoria Sharp.  

She was a slim, middle-aged black woman who was usually as poised and professional as they came. Right now though, she wore an expression that Robert had never seen before, something raw, vulnerable. She didn’t seem to notice him as she absently picked at a plate of scrambled eggs, focusing instead on the smartphone in front of her. An elderly black woman on the screen pursed her lips and sighed deeply.

“Look, Vicki, baby,” the woman said, “I know your work is important to you, but we need you to come home soon. Your father...what the doctors told him...”

“Mom, he’s going to be fine!” Victoria was trying to sound reassuring, but even Robert could hear the quaver edging her words. “What good will having me around do, anyway? I always seem to make things worse when I’m home!”

Shit. This...this wasn’t his dream anymore. This was Dr. Sharp’s. A genuine memory—and recent—by the feel of it. Yes, that was the same turquoise blouse she’d worn a few days ago, the same pale band-aid wrapped around her pointer finger from when she’d slipped opening a box of medical tubing with a dull exacto knife.

This was no good. It was a complication of the latest batch of the Somnus Shield compound they’d been working with—though it was able to facilitate the recreation of dreams, it could also dredge up fresh, emotionally resonant memories in any of the linked dreamers if they didn’t stay focused...and Robert had been anything but focused.

“Dr. Sharp!” Robert called, reaching out across the table to touch her arm.

She looked up, startled. “Mr. Fischer, what are you doing in my…” She looked around, awareness dawning. “We jumped again, didn’t we?”

Robert nodded, and Dr. Sharp sighed. “Well, let’s get this over with, shall we?” She pulled a revolver out from under the table and pointed it at him. She didn’t hesitate at all before pulling the trigger, and Robert didn’t flinch. He’d died more times than he could count, by now, and it just got easier each time.

He awoke in his own lab, blinking up blearily at his assistant, Lilian Chaowalit. She was a young Thai woman with sweet, almost girlish features, a cheerful demeanor, and a fresh degree in Neurobiology from Mahidol University here in Bangkok. She smiled hopefully at him as he sat up, but he could tell by the knit of her eyebrows that it was just for show. This test had been just as unproductive as the last dozen.

“Brainwave patterns looked—” she started.

“I don’t care,” Robert sighed. “I still couldn’t get any new details.”

“Not entirely true.” Dr. Sharp sat up and pulled the PASIV needle from her arm. She was older than Lilian, and had earned her PhD in chemical biology from Berkeley, an MD in neuroscience from Stanford, and had garnered ten years’ experience working in dream-share technology across the globe. She looked at Robert, hard. “You lost focus again.”

Robert winced, embarrassed by the personal memory he’d witnessed. “I’m sorry. I...I got distracted.” He rubbed his eyes. God, how was it that he was still so tired, after spending so much time hooked up to this damn machine? “We’ve spent three days on this new compound, and it only worked marginally better than the last.”

“We were still making progress before we jumped dreams,” Dr. Sharp said, rolling her head along her neck to ease her muscles. “I saw that you were able to get a more clearly defined face shape on the man next to you, and the gunman’s nose seems to be coming along well.”

“So, that’s it? A face shape and a nose.”

“I’ve done projects where we wouldn’t even make that much progress in three months. Experiments like this take time.”

_Yeah, well, time is something we’re running out of,_ Robert thought to himself. Lilian met his eye, reading his thoughts. She looked suddenly chagrined.

“What is it?” Robert asked.

“I took a message from Greer Biochem while you were under,” she said slowly.

“And…”

“It’s another no.” She swallowed hard. “They want confirmation of a fully working model of Somnus Shield before they’ll even sit down with us.”

Robert’s stomach knotted, his jaw clenched. Greer had been their last hope. They’d expressed mild interest when Robert had called them last week, and he’d hoped the article he’d convinced _The Economist_ to run would lend his pitch a little more credibility. It was the only reason he’d allowed Lillian and Dr. Sharp to talk him into making Somnus Shield public in the first place. The second he’d seen the article in print, though, he’d regretted it. He had no idea how they’d gotten their hands on that horrible candid photo of him, or why they’d used it instead of the groomed headshot he’d sent them. Apparently, he didn’t have many fans at the magazine, and now he looked more like a wide-eyed lunatic than a legitimate entrepreneur.

Since he’d started the project, he’d kept his cards painfully close to his chest, skirting the edge of paranoia, to ensure that no one knew what he was up to. It wasn’t the big dream-tech firms he was that worried about—it was the underground network of extractors that had gotten to him in the first place. Those were some dangerous people...and now they knew that Robert was out to find them. His gamble with the article had been for nothing.

Robert’s frustration morphed into despair, then quickly into fury. “Goddamn it!” He swiped his arm out, sending the medical table beside him clattering to the ground, scattering plastic tubing, empty compound canisters, and cotton balls. He instantly regretted it, looking up to see both his colleagues staring at him in mute horror.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Robert muttered. He dropped to his knees to begin cleaning up the mess he’d made.

Lilian touched his shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

“No, it’s—”

“Really. Let me, please.” Lillian knelt down beside Robert, and rested her latex-gloved hands over his bare ones. It was only then that he realized how badly his fingers were shaking. Embarrassment flooded him, hot and nauseating, and he hastily pulled his hands away as he got to his feet. Without a look at either of his employees, he strode out of the lab.

He barely stopped at his office long enough to grab his jacket, and he stormed down the hallway until he reached the fire door at the very end. He pushed it open roughly, and the cacophony of Bangkok immediately flooded his senses—the roar of traffic from Sukhumvit Road below, the wet, sticky heat of the air, the scents of diesel and incense and lemongrass. He stepped out onto the fire escape and let the door slam shut behind him, focusing on digging in the pockets of his otherwise useless jacket, finding the thing he needed more than anything right now…ah ha.

The first pull off his cigarette relaxed him by an increment, and he blew out the cloud of acrid smoke in an explosive sigh. He’d been smoking in secret for years—since his junior year of boarding school. He’d had to keep it carefully hidden from his father, though, even as an adult. Smoking cigarettes was a filthy, base habit, Maurice had always scoffed, and the one time he’d caught Robert smoking he’d actually slapped the cigarette out of his mouth. In front of two Fischer-Morrow board members. Robert’s cheek still stung at the memory, and he took an extra-long, defiant drag.

_You’re your own man now. You can smoke whenever you want._

The words floated gently from the back of his mind, like a cool fog enveloping his thoughts. It happened every time he thought of his father, began comparing himself to him—which was often. It had started almost immediately after Maurice’s death. They’d become a constant reminder of who he wasn’t, what he didn’t want to be…

Though he still had no idea who this man he was supposed to be truly was.

He took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs. By now, Robert sort of liked the ritual of finding a private corner to quietly indulge his one real vice. It was his time to think, to be alone.

_Who are you kidding. You’re always alone._

Robert looked down at the street below him. He was only seven stories up, but even from here the people scurrying below just seemed like a swirling mass of flesh and fabric. It was how he always saw people—from above. First, from the high-rise penthouses that had defined his past life, and now from here, on the seventh story. It almost made things worse, being this much further down, and yet still being so high above. If anyone looked up, they could see him. Smile. Wave. But no one ever did.

To be fair, he never called down, either, never reached out. He never did anything that didn’t involve working on Somnus Shield. No more dinners, power lunches, cocktail hours. Not that he would have anyone to go with. Dissolving Fischer-Morrow had apparently meant dissolving most of his connections, and he’d learned very, very quickly who his real friends were…and apparently, he’d had none. Even Uncle Peter had left, started his own corporation. To be fair, he kept trying to get Robert involved, but Robert had no interest in being his godfather’s employee. He was done being in someone else’s shadow. Which was why he was here in Bangkok, struggling to launch Pinwheel Enterprises—on his own.

Robert sighed, took another drag on his smoke. Everyone he knew in Bangkok, he’d hired to work for him…and he’d already had to let go of most of them. Even with the cheap cost of living and medical assets, he was still only a couple of months away from complete bankruptcy. Never, in all of his life, had Robert ever had to worry about not having enough money, and now he was on the verge of total financial collapse. He still had the family estate back in Sydney and some other hard assets, but he’d sunk all of his inheritance and most of his trust fund into this venture. He was even down to just one line of credit. It was damn uncomfortable, to say the least, dread gnawing constantly at his belly. If he couldn’t pull off Somnus Shield, he was ruined.

He stubbed his smoke out hard in the little tin ashtray he’d left out here on the fire escape, and rubbed his hands over his tired face. Bankruptcy wouldn’t even be the worst part of his failure, would it? No. It would be the unanswered question that had been buzzing in the back of his brain for three years now. Without Somnus Shield, he’d never solve the mystery that had been eating away at him—who the fuck had been in his head? Robert _knew_ , without a doubt, that someone had extracted from him on that plane ride from Sydney to Los Angeles, when he’d escorted his father’s body for interment at Forest Lawn. That dream had been too real, too layered, too complex. It had to have been organized, and planned for when Robert had been at his most broken, most vulnerable. _That_ was what disturbed him the most. It almost didn’t matter what they had taken, what mattered was that they had found him at his weakest and _violated_ him.

His chest tightened, his breath quickened, his thoughts undoing any good the cigarette had done to relax him. He would find the person—or people—who’d done this to him, and he would reveal them to the world. He would help put a stop to extractions, to these mind crimes—if only he could see those three faces in the cab in his dream.

When Robert stepped back into his office to hang up his jacket, he found Dr. Sharp waiting for him in one of his office chairs. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she looked up from her tablet computer, the only acknowledgement of his dirty little habit.

“Mr. Fischer, we need to talk.”

Robert’s heart sank. He’d known it’d only be a matter of time before he lost Dr. Sharp. With her credentials and experience, she could work for any biotech firm—dream-share focused or no—in the world. God, how was he going to continue work on Somnus Shield without her?

“If this is about what I saw in the dream—”

She raised a hand to stop him. “It’s fine. That’s not what this is about.” She gave him an appraising look. “When’s the last time you’ve slept a full eight hours or more?”

“Oh.” Relief flooded through Robert. “I don’t know. Couple of nights ago, I think?”

“Without the PASIV?”

Robert looked away, sucking in his cheeks. “That’s none of your business.”

“It damn well is my business.” Dr. Sharp’s tone was kind, despite her blunt words. “Your brain is my business. It’s why you hired me.” She sighed, and stood up to meet Robert’s eyes. “Look, Mr. Fischer, I’m staying on at a fraction of my usual fee because I am damn sure we are _this_ close to cracking the code for Somnus Shield. I’ve never seen someone take to dream-share the way you have, and really, if anyone can develop dream recreation, it’s you. But I have to know that you are taking care of yourself and your brain—letting it get the rest it needs. That may be why you’re having trouble these days.”

“I can’t afford a rest,” Robert muttered. He looked at Dr. Sharp, the concern on her face making him surprisingly angry. He had the old impulse to shut her down—how dare she question him? _He_ was in charge here, _he_ signed her paychecks, meager as they were.  You could bet that Maurice Fischer never let any of his employees speak so familiarly to him, and if Robert ran his company the way his father had—

_But you’re not him. You’re your own man, and you know Dr. Sharp is right._

“You can’t _not_ afford a rest,” Dr. Sharp said gently, pulling him out of the fog of his thoughts and back into his office. “Look, if it’s money you’re worried about, it may actually help costs to go dark for a few days. Give us all a week off.”

“This your way of angling for a vacation?” Robert’s lips quirked into a slight smile until he remembered what he’d seen in Dr. Sharp’s dream, the distress creasing her lovely face.  “Seems like you could use some time off, yourself.”

“Maybe I could. I haven’t been home since Christmas before last.” She sighed. “But this isn’t about me. You need to give yourself a break. Dream-share is extremely taxing on the mind, and you’ve been doing it on a near daily basis. You need some time away from it, give your brain a chance to recalibrate.” She raked her gaze over him. “And maybe get some sun. You’re the palest man in Thailand.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, get out there and prove me wrong. Go to the beach. I bet you haven’t set foot outside of Bangkok since you set up Pinwheel. See what the rest of the country has to offer. Live a little.”

“I….”

Dr. Sharp stuck her head out of the open office door. “Hey, Lily?”

“Yes, Dr. Sharp?” Lillian called back, a few seconds before her head peered around the corner.

“You’re the local girl. You know of a place Mr. Fischer could get some sun, unwind a bit?”

Lilian’s sweet smile turned slightly devilish. “I think I know of a place.”

Robert looked nervously between the two women, realization setting in. “No, I don’t think—”

“Great! Make the arrangements, Lily.” Dr. Sharp turned to Robert with a look that brooked no argument. “Mr. Fischer is going on holiday. Doctor’s orders.”


	4. {Eames} The Tourist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you really think you can make Fischer trust you in five—no, four days?”_

“Right, so, this is going to be a mite…tricky.” Eames leaned forward in his plush plane seat and poured himself another finger of brandy from the decanter on the table between him and Arthur. He peered around the cabin of the little jet, admiring the dark wood paneling, the leather seats, the kitchenette and bar in the back. He had to hand it to Arthur, selling out definitely had its perks.

“When isn’t it?” Arthur said. He sipped his mineral water, ice clinking gently against the side of the cut crystal glass.

“We know from last time that Fischer’s subconscious is highly militarized, and now he’ll actually be looking for intruders. Sneaking in to perform an extraction is impossible.”

“So, what do you propose, then?”

“We get an invitation.”

“An invitation into what?” Arthur’s brow furrowed.

“Into his mind.”

Arthur sat back in his seat, letting out his breath in a hard huff. It gave him the impression of a deflating balloon, but on the next inhale he straightened, steepled his fingers in front of his face, and met Eames’ gaze squarely.

“So you don’t want me for an extraction, you want me for an actual con.” Arthur shook his head, his jaw clenched, eyebrows raised. “I fucking knew I should’ve made you spill your plan before we left SF.”

“I need you for both,” Eames soothed. “Once I secure an invitation to dream-share with him—which will lull his subconscious into a sense of security—you sneak in and pull off the extraction to get the secrets of his Somnus Shield method. You now have what you need to develop your own version of dream re-creation for your own firm, which conveniently doesn’t pin-point anyone we give a damn about. You look like a genius, we all don’t go to jail, and I get thirty percent of your profits from—”

“Wait, what?” Arthur spluttered. “You never said anything about—”

“Oh, did I forget my consultant’s fee?” Eames asked innocently.

“Your what? You’re the one who came to me! I’m the one paying for all this!”

“And you’re the one poised to make fucking millions if this works.” Eames fixed him with a steely look, resisting the urge to flinch. This was a dangerous game to play with Arthur. He’d always been rather touchy about money, and Eames suspected he’d only gotten more so since he now had his own company to tend to.

In fact, Arthur’s face was so red it matched his silk tie. Finally, he closed his eyes and took three calming breaths. “Ten percent.”

“Don’t insult me. Twenty five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Eighteen.”

“Done.” Eames smiled. He’d hoped for twenty three, but by the way the vein was popping in Arthur’s forehead he figured it was best to quit while he was ahead. “I promise, this’ll be worth it.”

“It better fucking be,” Arthur practically spat. He drained his mineral water, then reached for the decanter of brandy. After he refilled his glass and took a long swig, he fixed Eames with an intense stare. Down to business. “Okay, then. What’s your brilliant plan to get Fischer to just roll out the red carpet for you to dream-share with him?”

“The Tourist.”

Arthur stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. “The Tourist?”

Eames nodded. “I made some phone calls and found out that Fischer’s actually leaving Bangkok tonight. He’s taking a few days off alone at a beach resort somewhere. Once we land at BKK, you can do a little digging, figure out exactly where he’s going. One way or another, he’ll be away from any friends or associates. He’ll be isolated.”

“Perfect timing,” Arthur murmured. “But do you really think the Tourist will be enough? I mean, sure it’s good for a quick extraction or information gathering, but it sounds like you’re planning a long con. Do you really think you can make Fischer trust you in five—no, four days?”

“I do. I really do.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The inception.” Eames spread his hands, like a dealer revealing his cards to the table. “Before we went in, I spent weeks analyzing Fischer, learning what made him tick, what he feared, what he wanted. I know Fischer better than he knows himself.”

“ _Knew_ him. He’s a different man now. You said so yourself.”

“Yes he is, but he’s a man we created, in part. That idea we planted in his head, that he is his own man, is a powerful trigger.”

“So you’ll know what buttons to push because we placed them there.”

“Exactly.”

“What makes you so sure he won’t recognize you?” Arthur asked. “You’ve been face-to-face with him on multiple occasions, both in reality and in dream-share.”

“Been in the same space, yes, but never face-to-face. Not really. Robert never once looked me straight in the eye. Always a passing scan. Man like him, he doesn’t remember anyone who’s not important, and what’s important about a legal secretary or a clumsy boor on a plane?”

“But he might remember the men who kidnapped him in a dream…no, no he doesn’t,” Arthur corrected himself, and barked out a strained laugh. “If he did, we wouldn’t be on this plane. We’d be dead.”

“Precisely. We know by virtue of his work that he doesn’t remember our faces from the dream. So…I’m confident I’m in the clear. Besides, I’m a master of disguise. Not even you’ll recognize me.” Eames winked at Arthur.

Arthur snorted lightly, and then looked out the window. Eames could practically see him calculate the risks and check the angles by the way his lips tightened and his eyes squinted. It was why he’d come to Arthur with this. Well, that and the money. But truly, when it came down to it, Arthur really was the best point man in the business. Even if he was a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

“All right,” Arthur said slowly. Eames didn’t miss the look of grudging respect in Arthur’s eyes as he nodded. “We pull the Tourist.”

“Excellent.” Eames rapped his knuckles on the table, then picked up his glass for a celebratory slug of brandy. So far, all the pieces were falling into place. Especially with Fischer being away from his office. Sure, the Tourist would work in a big city like Bangkok—all he needed was a fanny pack and a Moon Travel Guide to really pull it off—but it was even better when the mark themselves was an actual tourist, too. It put them on somewhat equal footing, made the mark more open to trying new things and meeting new people.

Or meeting them again for the fourth time.

“So, you really don’t care?” Arthur asked.

“Excuse me?” The sudden question caught Eames off-guard, pulling him out of his congratulatory thoughts.

“You heard me.” Arthur’s gaze became shrewd, slightly accusatory. “You really don’t care that what we’re planning to do is to ruin a man who’s on the brink of rebuilding himself from the ground up? A man who we knocked down to start with?”

“We did not knock him down,” Eames scoffed. “We gave him a clean slate. A way to start over out of the shadow of that tyrant of a father of his.”

“And now you want to wipe that slate again?”

Eames shifted in his seat, and this time the cushions didn’t feel nearly as comfortable under him.

“You really want all those people whose minds we’ve played in to come looking for us?” Eames asked quietly. “This isn’t personal. It’s about survival.”

Arthur cocked his head. “If you’re keeping something important from me—”

“I wouldn’t be so crass,” Eames snapped. “I’m not Cobb.”

Silence filled the private cabin. Eames noted how Arthur didn’t bother defending his old partner. Even if Dom hadn’t retired from the game to enjoy the remnants of his family life, no one in the network would ever have worked with him again. Not after what he’d hidden from them during the Fischer job.

“All I’m asking is, have you really considered what we’re about to do to Fischer?” Arthur asked. “If that picture is anything to go by, he’s not entirely flourishing. This may not wipe the slate. This may break it.”

Eames swallowed hard. He thought of that picture of Fischer—the pale skin, the red rims around his eyes, the outgrown hair marring his otherwise handsome visage. Even in the brief article, Eames could hear his desperation to find the solution to unlocking dream re-creation. It was consuming him…and stealing the project from him might well be a blow he’d never recover from.

_Don’t feel too sorry for him, Eames,_ a smooth, dark voice whispered from the back of his mind. _Men like Fischer—born with a silver spoon in his mouth—always land on their feet. They have connections, resources, and luck that regular people like you never have. He probably still has a huge fucking pile of money, more than enough for him to start some new little pet project. Let him play in someone else’s backyard, and leave you the hell alone._

“We’ll be doing him a favor,” Eames said quietly. “He obviously can’t handle what he’s working with. Best to leave it to the professionals.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Okay then. We land in ten hours. Let’s get to work.”


	5. {Robert * Eames} Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m sorry, do I know you?”_
> 
> Just to clarify, chapters with multiple names denote different sections of POV, not multiple POVs at once.

Robert was hating his vacation.

Dr. Sharp would tell him to give it a chance, that he’d only been in Pattaya—fucking _Pattaya_ , of all places in Thailand!—for less than 24 hours, but Robert had already seen enough. The “high-end” resort that Lillian had booked him into was laughably pedestrian, a middle-class fantasy of what luxury really meant, complete with waterslides, dolphin-shaped pools, and garish “modern” statuary meant to please the sun-burned vacationing Westerners. If that wasn’t bad enough, every hotel clerk and attendant seemed to look at Robert with a sort of sideways slyness, despite their openly friendly demeanor, giving him a look that said, “We know why you’re here.”

There was only one reason single men came to Pattaya, and as Robert scanned the crowded patio bar he saw plenty of older Western men with their arms slung around their slight Thai dates. The resort was a good distance from the main party district, but Robert still remembered the taxi ride in, the garish little clubs with the bored, scantily clad girls on display outside even at three in the afternoon. Dr. Sharp and Lillian hadn’t sent him here to relax—they’d sent him to get laid.

Robert was thinking of exactly how he was going to fire them after he returned when the bartender slid a drink beside his almost-empty glass of Singha.

“I didn’t order this.” Robert’s face twisted in confusion as he stared at the drink. If it even could be called a drink. It was a bright pink concoction in a hurricane glass, garnished with a salad’s worth of tropical fruit and topped with a little paper umbrella. He wasn’t even sure how he would drink it through all the accessories, even if he had any interest in it.

“Compliments of the lady.” The bartender flashed a wide smile, and raised his eyebrows suggestively. He gestured at a table out on the patio, where a lone woman sat. She was a lot like her drink: definitely pretty, but a bit too much with her big, blond hair, large hoop earrings, and low-cut, tropical print sundress.  She waggled her fingers in a casual wave, her long, glossy nails glinting in the sun, and gave him what she obviously thought was a coquettish smile.

Yeah. Not his type. At all.

“Um, I think I’ll just stick with my regular order.” Robert slid the drink back to the bartender.

“If you don’t want it, mate, then I’ll take it.”

Robert turned, surprised. He hadn’t even noticed when the man had sat down beside him. He looked like any of the other Western tourists here at Pattaya, decked in a white, short-sleeve button-down shirt and khaki pants. His face was mostly hidden by large aviator sunglasses and a straw panama hat, but Robert couldn’t miss the intriguing shape of his full lips. There was something about him…something strangely familiar.

“Um, sure. It’s yours.” Robert pushed the drink over to the stranger, who picked it up smoothly.

“I’m never one to turn down a drink from a lady, even a drink that looks like a bloody Easter hat.” The stranger had a rough English accent, one that Robert couldn’t quite place. He unearthed a straw from the mountain of fruit and took a sip. “Not bad.”

Robert turned to see if the woman was offended by his rejection. She was gone, her spot already taken by a sweating, thick-set man and his bored-looking Thai companion. That was quick.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked. “Since I stole yours?”

Robert automatically opened his mouth to refuse. He had come to Pattaya for a little privacy and relaxation, and engaging in social niceties with strangers was definitely not Robert’s idea of relaxing. However, when stranger’s lip quirked up into a smile—almost more like a smirk—another wave of recognition stilled Robert’s words. God, did he know this man? Had they worked together once? No. That was too much of a coincidence, even for a famous resort town.

_Maybe it’s not déjà vu you’re feeling. See how that shirt clings to those biceps of his? Been awhile since you’ve even had time to look at another man. Maybe you’ve just forgotten how attraction feels._

“Sure,” Robert said, a little cautiously. “I’ll take a Singha.”

As the bartender hurried to fill his order, the stranger arched one eyebrow over the top of his aviator sunglasses. “I would have taken you for a gin and tonic man.”

Robert shrugged, his unease growing. He _had_ been a gin and tonic man—Bombay Sapphire and Schweppes—since he’d been old enough to drink in polite company. It was a simple drink, easy and elegant, and close enough to his father’s predilection for dry martinis to please the old man. After his father had died, Robert had realized that his taste for the cocktail had as well, and he had yet to find an adequate replacement.

“I’m on vacation,” Robert said as his drink arrived. “I’m trying something new.” He watched as the stranger peeled a pair of pink 100 baht notes from an impressive-looking roll and handed them to the bartender. It was Robert’s turn to raise a brow. “You might want to be careful flashing that much money around here.”

“Afraid I’ll get mugged?” The stranger’s sly little smile returned, making the knot in Robert’s belly tighten even further. Heat spread across his face as there, that feeling of familiarity again...

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Robert asked before he could stop himself.

“Don’t think so, mate.” The stranger shook his head, and extended a hand. “Charlie Ray, from Manchester.”

“Robert Fischer.” Robert took the offered hand, and he found himself assessing the handshake, trying to read Charlie through the strength of his grip, the smooth texture of his cool skin. It was an old skill, more of a habit at this point, and he stopped himself before he tried to determine Charlie’s background. This wasn’t a business meeting. He wasn’t sizing up the competition, or testing a new ally. He was just being polite. Friendly.  

As Charlie shook Robert’s hand,  he lowered his head enough so he could look at Robert over the rims of his dark glasses. He had lovely blue-grey eyes.

“But maybe I know you.”

Robert had to keep himself from yanking his hand back, trying to still the sudden tremor that shook through him. So much for just being friendly. This had to be a reporter, or some disgruntled Fischer-Morrow ex-employee, or maybe a—

“You’re someone famous, aren’t you?” Charlie thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I remember! I saw your picture in a magazine on the plane over from Heathrow!”

Robert balked, feeling as if he’d been doused in ice water.

“You mean that nice little piece that just ran in _The Economist_?” Robert’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling up into a sneer. “Enjoy reading all about how I destroyed my father’s great legacy to literally chase some crazy dream?”

“Whoa there!” Charlie put both his hands up defensively, confused and taken aback.  “Here I thought I was meeting a Calvin Klein model. My mistake.” He picked up his drink. “You obviously have a lot on your mind. I’ll leave you to it.” He raised his pink drink in salute. “Cheers.”

Then he was gone. Remorse flooded through Robert, hot and bitter, followed quickly by anger at himself. He really didn’t have any idea how to mingle with regular people, did he? Charlie had just been trying to be friendly, make small talk with a fellow tourist out enjoying the seashore, and Robert had bitten his head off.

Robert looked down at his glass, his foamy yellow beer untouched. He suddenly felt wrong drinking it. Hell, he felt wrong being at this bar, this resort, this fucking vacation. How was he supposed to “relax his mind” when he couldn’t even step out of his hotel without having to deal with people? He should’ve asked Lillian to book him a private bungalow somewhere in the middle of the damn jungle. Isolated. Quiet.

With a deep sigh, he shoved himself away from the counter and headed down towards the beach, trying to let go of his anxiety...and trying to  forget the stranger’s roguish smirk.

****

“What the hell was that?” Arthur snapped, looking up at Eames to scowl at him from under his straw fedora. Eames tried not to snicker. Vacation casual attire did not suit Arthur at all, even if he had picked the darkest colored prints available. He looked ten years younger than he usually did when he wore a suit. Which meant he looked about twelve.  

“What was that?” Eames repeated. _That_ had been a rush. To see Fischer again, stare him right in the eye—and realize he had no idea who Eames was. There had been a hint of _something_ , an interest that was not quite recognition, not quite suspicion...but close. Eames’ heart was still pounding, like when he was holding a poker hand that wasn’t enough on its own, but could come together just perfectly if the dealer slid over the right two cards.This was going to be the game of a lifetime.

“I’m laying the foundation,” Eames  continued calmly. “Creating a sense of social obligation. Next time Fischer runs into ol’ Charlie from Manchester, he’ll feel like he owes it to him to play nice, to explain himself.”

“Unless he just avoids him.”

“He won’t,” Eames said, taking a long drink from his hurricane glass, wincing at the sticky-sweetness. “He’s so lonely he’d almost talk to Tilda over there.”

Arthur followed Eames’ gaze over to the buxom blonde with the loud dress, who was hanging on the arm of an equally tan, equally loud-looking man at a table on the edge of the patio.

“Who is she?” Arthur asked.

“Dunno,” Eames shrugged, “just some bird out on holiday happy to help play matchmaker for a poor, love-struck fool.” Eames said the last bit with a hint of a lisp, rolling his wrist in a casual yet telling manner.

Arthur rolled his eyes and sipped his mineral water. “So when does Robert meet Charlie again?” His eyes followed Fischer as he left the patio bar, headed towards the beach.

“Tomorrow,” Eames said.

“Tomorrow?” Arthur looked up at him, surprised. “We only have four days!”

“Don’t worry, darling. It’ll all come together, just watch.” Eames flashed Arthur a smile, and then stepped away from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to enjoy this sliver of vacation before I really get to work.”

Arthur’s face was turning red again. “I’m not paying you to lounge by a pool.”

Eames looked insulted. “Do I look like the pool type? I’m going to get myself a real drink and talk to a friend I met at the bar about finding myself a _Pok Deng_ game. You? Go have some fun. Looks like you could use it.” He smirked and turned away.

“Gambling is illegal here, you know,” Arthur snapped.

“So is everything else I do!” Eames called back without turning around. “Never stopped me before!”


	6. {Eames * Robert * Arthur} Not a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’d call this dinner a lot of things, but fun is not one of them.”_

“All right, there he is,” Eames said, watching from his spot in the lobby as Fischer exited the elevators and headed towards the hotel bar.

“God, he looks worse than yesterday,” Arthur murmured.

Arthur was right. Poor Robert did look worse than he had the day before. Though he was smartly dressed for the evening’s cocktail hour—with his long-sleeved silk shirt tucked into tailored black slacks—his clothes were riddled with deep wrinkles, as if hadn’t bothered to iron them once he’d pulled them out of his suitcase. His nearly shoulder-length hair had been hastily brushed back, though it was obvious that Robert still didn’t quite know what to do with hair that long. He also still hadn’t touched his razor, his stubble grown long past the five o’clock shadow and hovering somewhere closer to midnight. Most telling, though, were his eyes: heavy-lidded, red-rimmed, and circled with bruise-like shadows. Eames had seen that look too many times before, and it told him almost everything he needed to know: Fischer couldn’t sleep.

“He’s on vacation. He’s supposed to let himself go,” Eames said.

“Looks like he’s been letting himself go for a few years.”

“Hmmm, I wonder what could have caused that.” Eames gave Arthur a pointed look.

“Get to work,” Arthur grumbled. He nodded towards the bar, where Fischer was bellying up to order himself a drink. “And don’t come on too strong. He’s skittish.”

“Me, come on strong? I am the absolute model of subtlety.” Eames placed a hand over his heart as he backed away from Arthur, pulling at the yellow tropical-print shirt he’d bought for the occasion.

Eames knew better than to show up to an expensive resort lounge at cocktail hour wearing bright, casual colors. Too bad that poor Charlie Ray didn’t, and as he wove his way through the elegant bar, he stood out like a parrot amidst a flock of ravens. It was just what he wanted.

He picked a spot down the bar, behind a thick-set man ordering his scotch and soda. As soon as he moved, Eames would be right in Fischer’s line of sight. He waited quietly, watching Fischer out of the corner of his eye.

The big man took his drink and left, and the bartender turned his attention to Eames. Ever the professional, his gaze glossed over Eames’ inappropriate dress to land squarely on his eyes. He gave him a small smile.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“I’ll have a black and tan.” Eames kept his face earnest.

“Excuse me, sir?” The bartender cocked his head in confusion.

“You know, a black and tan?” Eames gestured with his hand. “Half Guinness, Half Bass?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have either of those beers on tap.”

“You don’t have either on tap?” Eames pitched his voice a little louder, feigning incredulity. “What kind of resort is this?”

“One that only serves local beers, it seems.” Fischer’s soft voice chimed in from across the bar.

“And Budweiser,” the bartender piped up, obviously trying to be helpful.

“The Singha really isn’t that bad, as long as it’s ice cold,” Fischer said. He thought for a moment, then gave Eames a ghost of a smile. “Let me buy you one?”

The game was on. Place your bets.

“Like I said, I never turn down a free drink.” Eames nodded his assent to the bartender, who swooped off to fill the order.

“You said you never turned down a free drink from a lady,” Fischer corrected.

Eames shrugged and gave him a friendly smile. “I’m not picky.”

He let that hang as his drink arrived, and he watched as Robert instructed the bartender to put the beer on his tab. He held out his glass.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Robert clinked his glass to his, a little awkwardly. Eames didn’t miss how Robert’s eyes touched his for only the barest fraction of a second before sliding away again. The look of a man with too much to hide.

“I, um,” Fischer’s brows knotted together, “I wanted to apologize. For yesterday.”

Eames waved his hand dismissively, even as he smiled inwardly. His plan had worked perfectly. “No worries, mate.”

“Thanks, but really. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that.” Robert looked away, uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for someone…or looking for an escape route. Eames would have to be quick. He rolled the dice.

“Look,” he said carefully, “I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help but look you up on the internet after our little encounter.” He gave a low whistle. “I have to say, you’ve got yourself a brass pair there.”

That got Robert’s attention. His head whipped back to Eames, his face screwed up with confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think I could do what you did, just walk away from that much money, that much…” he paused, weighing the word in his mouth, “power.”

Robert took a long drink from his beer, eyes looking forward. For a moment, Eames wondered if he’d taken too big a risk too soon, if he should have eased into Robert’s past.

“It wasn’t easy,” Robert finally admitted.

“I’m just saying, I can see why you got a bit jumpy at the bar yesterday,” Eames leaned in a little closer, “most of the articles I read weren’t too flattering.”

“No. No, they haven’t been.”

“You know what I say to that?”

Robert crooked an eyebrow, his gaze icy underneath.

“Fuck ’em.” Eames gave him a wide grin. “It takes a real man to break from his golden yoke and follow his dreams.”

Each of Eames’ carefully chosen words seemed to strike true, Robert flinching almost imperceptibly. Eames raised his glass again.

“To being your own man,” he said. He looked Robert right in the eye, and could practically see the ice cracking and giving way.

“To being your own man.” Robert exhaled, and clinked glasses more enthusiastically than he had before.

God, this was almost too easy.

“Thank you, Mr. Ray,” Robert said quietly after his sip. “I have to admit, your attitude is quite...refreshing.”

“Call me Charlie.”

After that, Robert was more open to “Charlie.” There was the usual banter about the humid Thailand weather, the unusual food, what was waiting back home. Charlie proudly showed off his new smart phone—it was a good year to be in textiles—with the pictures of his new Audi and even newer girlfriend.

“Lovely girl,” Robert commented as he inspected the smiling blonde. “She didn’t join you?”

“She thinks I’m on a business trip in Bangkok,” he admitted roguishly. “Pattaya is no place to bring a lady. Especially if you’re looking for a bit of fun on your own.”

Robert nodded, vaguely uncomfortable.  Eames bit back a laugh. If only Robert knew that picture of the girl Charlie was “cheating” on was a composite of various stock images.

“Can’t tell me you’re not here for the same thing,” Eames said, leaning on the bar. “Blokes don’t come alone to seedy resort towns famous for their bar girls to catch up on their reading.”

Robert thought for a long moment, his finger tracing the rim of his almost-empty glass. “Actually, I came here to relax. To think.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up. “Think? Here?”

“My secretary set it up.” Robert gave a nonchalant little half-shrug, but Eames could tell that he was embarrassed by the pink coloring the tips of his ears, the way his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip. Interesting...and oddly endearing.

“Well, has Pattaya helped you come up with any brilliant ideas?” Eames asked, half-joking.

To his surprise, Robert flinched, visibly this time. A hidden nerve had been struck, and Robert was looking over his shoulder again, as if the answer to his question would come floating into the lounge.

“No,” he admitted finally, almost fiercely. His gaze flickered over Eames’, refusing to stick again. “No, it hasn’t.”

“It’s alright.” Eames tried to soothe Robert. “I’m sure something will pop into your head.”

Again, the flinch, the physical withdrawal. Eames was starting to roll badly. It always was worse after a hot streak, too.

“No, it won’t.” Robert’s jaw tightened, and he fixed Eames with a hard, intense stare. It was Eames’ turn to flinch, though he tried his best to control it. “Nothing I’ve tried has worked. Nothing.”

Eames’ mind raced. “The articles I saw said you were developing some sort of dream defense—”

“It’s a fucking joke,” Robert hissed, looking away. “I can’t even make it work on myself, how am I supposed to make it work on anyone else?”

Eames was shocked into silence. Had the article been a bluff?

Robert rubbed his mouth with his hand. He was silent for a long, long moment. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He looked down at his glass, drained it, and placed it down firmly, yet gently. “I should know better.” He gave Eames a cool once-over, looking more like the Robert Fischer Eames had known before. “You could be a corporate spy from Browning or Cobol.”

Eames didn’t miss a beat. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’ve got me, chief. I’m a regular bloody James Bond. Except my tux was at the cleaners, so I had to make do with this sexy little number.” He did a little jig, right there, knowing how ridiculous he looked in his yellow shirt, shorts, and socks with sandals.

The dice were rolling across the table. Eames hoped Robert couldn’t see the sudden bloom of sweat across his upper lip, over his upraised palms.

Robert laughed, long and hard. Thank God.

“God, I sound so paranoid,” Robert groaned through a chuckle.

“I don’t blame you for being careful. When it comes to my business, I tend to keep pretty tight-lipped, too,” Eames said. He flicked a glance across the lounge, over to the table he’d left Arthur. He was scrolling through his smart phone with a cocktail in one hand, looking for all the world like another preoccupied tourist. Eames found it strange, being watched so closely while he worked a con, but Arthur insisted he wanted to be nearby, “in case something happened.” Eames wasn’t sure what that meant, except that Arthur had become even more of a control freak than he used to be.

He glanced down at Robert’s empty glass. “Can I buy you another round? I’ve got nowhere to be. Maybe could give you an idea or two, if you think a humble fabric merchant is worth listening to.”

“I think I’m done drinking for now,” Robert said, pushing himself away from the bar.

Eames’ stomach twisted. Damn. So close. Now he would have to concoct yet a third reason for Charlie to bump into Robert, and this time, Charlie was the one who was on the side of social debt.  It was going to be tricky, especially with only three days left—

“I haven’t really eaten all day.” Robert cocked his head towards the door.  “Have dinner with me? Somewhere away from of all this fake jungle stuff.” He waved a dismissive hand around the bar, wrinkling his nose at the tropical chic décor.

Eames’ eyebrows shot up. Was…was Robert actually asking him out to dinner? His pulse sped up unexpectedly, and he had to repress his frown lest Robert get the wrong idea. Nothing in his research or experience had shown that Robert’s predilections lined up with Eames’. The few times he’d seen Robert with a date of any sort, it had been decidedly female company. Could’ve been for show, though. Maybe Eames should be playing a different angle here, make it more of an actual date…

_A date? Get yourself fucking together, Eames. That’s too risky a gamble on too little information. You could blow this all if you come on to him and it’s not what he meant. No, it’s safer to stick to the friendly tourist at this point. Do what friends do. Drink. Eat. Play cards. You know, all that normal stuff you usually do on your own._

“I’m bloody famished,” Eames said with a smile. He pushed himself away from the bar and picked up his hat up off the counter. “You know, I saw a place on the way in that might just be the ticket.” He checked his watch, grinned, and began walking out of the bar. He knew Robert would follow. “And if we hurry, we’ll make it before it starts.”

“Before what starts?”

****

The football match.

Of course Charlie would want to go to one of the ex-pat pubs in town. Robert didn’t know if this was better or worse than the faux-tropical motif at the resort, this pale imitation of a real British pub. It was obviously the best the owner could do to recreate the comforts of home with local resources—dark wood, checkered upholstery, walls covered with flags from various football clubs—but at least it had an impressive selection of beers on tap. That should make the evening here bearable.

God, why the hell had Robert asked Charlie out to dinner—and why had he let him pick this dismal spot?  Robert certainly could’ve sprung for one of the nicer seafood restaurants by the water…

_But that might have looked like you were asking him on a_ date _, wouldn’t it? And you know how much straight men are scared by that, right?_

No. This was safer. This grotty, grimy, noisy, smelly little pub. Robert glanced up at his dinner companion, reminding himself why he was there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with anyone, and even if he thought further back he couldn’t remember dining with someone who didn’t have an agenda—be it Browning, his father, or a business associate. This was supposed to be for pleasure. Which was why Robert was almost out of things to say within minutes after ordering their food.

Half of the people in the pub erupted into a loud cheer—including Charlie. He even jumped up, his chair almost crashing backwards as he pumped his fist in the air. Robert looked up from his pint of Boddingtons in time to catch the replay as Man U scored against Liverpool, and Charlie cheered again, just as exuberantly. Robert forced a wan smile.

“Sorry, mate, just got a bit excited,” Charlie said as he scooted his chair back to the table and sat back down. “Something surreal about watching the boys play back home when I’m half a world away, you know?”

Robert nodded absently. He didn’t know, actually.

“What’s your team?” Charlie asked, taking a long swig from his pint. When he pulled it away, a line of foam clung to his upper lip, highlighting the sharp, sensuous bow for a moment before his pink tongue darted up to swipe it away. Robert swallowed hard, and tried to hide the flush on his cheeks behind his own pint glass.

_Not the team you’re on, Charlie._

“I don’t really have one,” Robert admitted.

“Come on, everyone’s got a team!” Charlie said, incredulously. “Even an American like you.”

Robert didn’t bother to correct Charlie. “Really, I don’t,” Robert said instead, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Never had any interest in football, I guess.” He didn’t elaborate on the truth: that he’d never been allowed to play football, even as a boy. It wasn’t…seemly, his father had said. Polo, lacrosse, tennis…now those were gentlemen’s games.  

“Don’t matter.” Charlie leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Don’t matter if you don’t know how the game is played or can only name three teams in the league. Everyone’s got that one team that when they see it score they cheer—even a little—inside.”

“I…” Robert looked around the pub, as if searching for a clue. Suddenly, he saw it, the logo emblazoned on the back of a sweat-soaked T-shirt.

“San Diego Chargers,” Robert said.

“That’s not football!” Charlie scoffed with a laugh.

“Yes it is!” Robert protested, though not vehemently. “It’s a football team. An American football team.”

“No, no, no! Come on, when World Cup is going on, you root for—first answer that comes into your head—”

“Australia,” Robert blurted out, mostly to get Charlie to stop pestering him.

“The Socceroos!” Charlie chuckled. “Really?”

Robert shrugged. “I was born in Sydney.”

“No shit?” Charlie cocked his head. “Your accent, though…you don’t sound Australian.”

Robert sighed deeply, pushing against the old annoyance. He’d had to explain this so very many times. “I have dual citizenship. Australian father, American mother.”

“So you were raised in America, then? San Diego, by your taste in teams?”

“Los Angeles, mostly. Chargers were the closest team once the Raiders left, but they were horrible anyway.”

“That, at least, we can agree on.” Charlie raised his pint in salute before taking another swig. “So, Los Angeles. You go to school with any movie stars?”

Robert rolled his eyes. “No. I was sent off to boarding school in the UK for pretty much all my childhood.” It came out sharper than he meant to, and when he looked up at Charlie he didn’t miss the strange glint in his eye. Robert suddenly realized how he must sound, poor little rich boy complaining about the top-notch education he’d had at one of the world’s most exclusive schools. Not the best way to make friends, especially if his suspicions were correct about Charlie’s pedigree—or lack thereof. That cheap shirt certainly didn’t give the appearance of a boarding school background.

_Neither does yours these days, does it, Robert?_

“I, um, really liked it there,” Robert tried to correct himself. “England, I mean. I never made it all the way up to Manchester, unfortunately, but there were some really lovely places.”

“Some pretty dismal ones, too, if you know where to look,” Charlie said, a little too blithely, “but I’m sure you saw most of the best stuff, gardens, hotels, castles.”

Robert winced inwardly, fidgeted with the coaster. He’d obviously struck a hidden nerve. God, this...this was why he never talked to anyone. He just didn’t know what to say to normal people without putting his foot in his mouth.

“Actually, I didn’t get out very much. I’d go to London every once in a while, and there’d be field trips to the historic sites, but mostly I just stayed at the school. Always work to do.”

Charlie laughed a little, relaxing a bit. “You’ve always been an overachiever.”

Robert tore off the corner of his coaster, feeling even more uncomfortable. Charlie didn’t know him, so why was he getting so familiar?

“If the research I did on you is any indication.” Charlie gave him a sheepish little smile. “You’ve always been a busy man. And now, with your own company, I’m sure you don’t get much of a chance to get out anymore either.”

“This is the first vacation I’ve taken in years,” he admitted slowly.

“Well deserved, then!”

“No, no not really,” Robert sighed. He took another long drink. God, where was their food? He felt more than slightly buzzed, two beers on an empty stomach making him suddenly and surprisingly honest.

“Oh, stop being so humble,” Charlie said. “I know you said you’ve been having trouble, but sometimes that’s the best time to take a break, step back, see the problem from a new angle. You just need a little time—”

“I don’t have time!” Robert snapped. Exasperation was getting the better of him, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I have no funding. No investors. I’m burning through my resources faster than I thought I would. If I don’t figure this thing out within the next sixty days, Pinwheel will be dead and I’ll be completely bankrupt.”

The crowd around them cheered as someone scored, but Charlie didn’t even look at the screen. He was just staring at Robert with a strange mix of surprise and sympathy. It made Robert’s gut twist unexpectedly, heat flush through him. He’d said too much. Far, far too much.

“I had no idea,” Charlie said quietly. “That…that’s a rough spot to be in, mate. No wonder you look so bloody tired.”

Robert wanted to accept Charlie’s sympathy. He wanted to admit to the strain, the fear, the constant feeling that he was a colossal failure. He wanted to tell him about the insomnia, the paranoia, the loneliness. He wanted to admit to having worked harder in his life than he ever had before, to tell him why dream-defense was so close to his heart.

But he couldn’t. Not when Charlie looked so…so genuinely concerned. Almost pitying. Robert didn’t need pity. Not from Charlie. Not from anyone.

Robert drained his glass, and set it down firmly on the table. “Look. I think it’s time I get back to the hotel. There’s some work I need to—”

“It’s okay,” Charlie said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be broke. Truly broke. No-idea-where-your-next-meal’s-coming-from broke. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Robby. We all fall on hard times sometimes.”

To his surprise, Charlie’s fingers touched the back of Robert’s hand. It was a light touch—casual, yet comforting—and Robert flushed, heat coursing through him from scalp to toes.

_Not me!_ Robert wanted to protest. _I’ve never, in my life, had to feel this way. Not when my father was alive, not when I had Fischer-Morrow, not when…_

_When I wasn’t my own man._

“Look,” Charlie’s gaze flickered around the crowded pub,  “I really have to use the loo, then I’m gonna get us another round of pints. When I get back, then you and I are gonna see if we can maybe come up with a plan to help you out. I may not know anything about this fancy dream-tech stuff, but I do know how to run a business.”

“I…” Robert didn’t know what to say. Nor could he say it. His throat was suddenly tight.

“I’ll be right back.” Charlie smiled brightly and stood up from the table.

As soon as Charlie’s fingers slid off of Robert’s hand, the connection was broken. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. He wanted to accept Charlie’s help. He seemed so damn sincere, so open…and was so fucking good-looking. On the other hand, Robert had learned early on that you didn’t trust anyone when it came to your business…especially if you were attracted to them.

As much as Robert wished this was going to work out differently, it was best for this social experiment of his to end.

Robert stood up and fished in his wallet for some money. He estimated how much the dinner tab would be. Then he added an extra few bills. He wasn’t going to let Charlie think he was a freeloader.  Besides, the least he could do was pay for dinner if he was going to sneak out on him.

Then, before he could change his mind, he walked out of the pub, trying not to look back.

 

******

Arthur waited for Eames in the pub’s grimy little bathroom, trying hard not to pace. The lavatory smelled of bleach and sewage, with the odd waft of rancid grease from the nearby kitchen.  Appetizing. There were no other occupants—he’d even checked under the stalls—but he didn’t know how long that was going to last.

His unease grew with each passing second. He had no idea what was going on at that table between Eames and Fischer, but from where Arthur had been sitting at the bar he could see that Eames was obviously getting a reaction from Fischer. Not a great one, either. The more they talked, the more Fischer had become defensive, upset, until Arthur had finally had enough. The next time Eames had glanced his way, Arthur had rubbed his hand across his throat, their silent signal to meet in the men’s room to confer.  

Eames finally arrived, scanning the bathroom even as he was pretending not to.

“We have it to ourselves,” Arthur said quickly. “No locks though.”

“We’ll have to talk while I conduct a little business, then.” Eames headed to the urinal. “God, that beer just goes through you in this heat!”

“Glad you’re having fun,” Arthur grumbled.

“I’d call this dinner a lot of things, but fun is not one of them.” Eames had dropped out of his Manchester cadence, speaking again in his even London accent. “He’s a fucking mess.”

“What about the project?” Arthur asked. “Has he said anything?”

Eames finished and zipped up, then went to the sink. He ran his hands under the tepid water, and smoothed them over his already slick hair.

“No details yet. Just that he’s having trouble getting it to work on himself, and he’s almost bankrupt. He can’t get any investors.”

The information sent a jolt of relief through Arthur. If Fischer really had nothing, couldn’t attract any funding, then there wasn’t much to fear, was there? He really would just implode in on himself, his secrets still hidden from the world.

_Don’t be soft, Arthur. Until you know for sure he’s dead in the water, he’s still a threat. You can’t lose your resolve now because you feel a bit sorry for him._

“We need to know more,” Arthur said quickly. “About what exactly he’s having trouble with.”

Eames fixed Arthur with a look. “I’m working on it, darling. These things take time, finesse.”

Arthur bit down a sigh of exasperation. He knew Eames was right, but he was getting pretty damn tired of feeling like he was being dragged along on this little endeavor of Eames’. This was the third day of their job, and the way Eames was operating Arthur was starting to doubt he could really gain Fischer’s trust in just 48 more hours. Eames might have all the time in the world to gently lull Fischer into his confidence, but Arthur was on the clock.  

“No. We need to step up the timetable,” Arthur said.

Eames crossed his arms across his chest and cocked his head. “And how do you propose to force the man’s trust?”

“We throw him a surprise party.” Even as Arthur said it, his stomach knotted.

“We throw him a…” Eames’ voice trailed off as realization dawned. He arched his eyebrow at Arthur in surprise. “I thought you hated surprise parties.”

Arthur did hate surprise parties. He had always argued against throwing one when the idea had come up during a con. They were crude and dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and people invariably got hurt. Sometimes worse. So why was this suddenly feeling like a good idea?

_Because you’ve learned that sometimes you have to take big risks to reap big rewards. Sometimes people get a little hurt, but in the end they’ll survive…and you’ll have what you need._

“I think it’ll work,” Arthur said slowly. “It’s one of the fastest ways to build trust.”

Eames studied him carefully, but nodded slowly. “All right, then. I’m not armed, so—”

The knot tightened in Arthur’s gut. “You won’t need weapons. I’ll just—”

The bathroom door opened, and a man in a blue soccer jersey stumbled over to the urinal. Time was up.

“I’m going to go out and find the guests. Won’t be more than three,” Arthur said, heading for the door. He’d had enough of this stinking bathroom.

“I’ll be ready,” Eames said, already slipping back into Charlie Ray’s Manchester cadence. He  gave Arthur a curious look as he slid out of the bathroom.

Arthur’s mind was already working as he exited the pub from the back door. He’d eyed a group of Thai teenagers pick-pocketing tourists in the night market not a few blocks away. They might just be the perfect party guests.

He pushed against his unease. Eames was skilled in combat, and he would be careful. Arthur wouldn’t have suggested the plan otherwise. No one would get too hurt, not really, and it would be just the push Fischer needed to really trust Charlie…confide in him. The ends justified the means. Didn’t they?


	7. {Eames * Robert} Surprise Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I suppose you’re here to rob us?”_

_ A surprise party? What the fuck has gotten into Arthur?  _ Eames wondered as he pushed through the crowded pub back to his table. That sort of thinking was usually reserved for someone on the more…rough end of this business. Not someone who was a born organizer, who understood subtlety and planning. Arthur must really be getting nervous. Eames sighed. Whatever happened to trust? When had Eames ever let Arthur down…

Eames’ train of thought came to a grinding halt when he reached the table to find only a very annoyed server piling their empty glasses onto her food-laden tray. She brightened when she saw him.

“I thought you go!” she said in her heavily-accented English, and motioned for him to sit down. “Food ready!”

“Wait, where’s my friend?” Eames looked around the bar, pulse speeding up as his belly began to twist. He knew Robert wasn’t in the bathroom, he’d just been there. Maybe he’d gotten impatient and decided to get their second round…no, not at the bar, either. Goddamn it.

The server shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. He pay already, though.” She held up a wad of baht, and even with the exchange rate conversion Eames could tell Robert had paid almost double for both their meals.

Shit. Eames had struck the money nerve too hard, and wounded Robert’s pride. Fischer wasn’t used to being tight on funds, and given his upbringing being near broke must be playing real hell on him. He was ashamed, so he’d run.

Eames turned and strode out of the pub, ignoring the server’s protests. The pub had been paid, and she was making a very nice tip. No one was going to get hurt…as long as Eames acted fast.

Eames pulled out his phone, and dialed Arthur’s number. It rang three times before going to voicemail. He tried again. Nothing. Fuck! Arthur must already be setting up the party. Which meant that Robert was now on his own, with a surprise party waiting for him in any one of the dark alleyways between here and the hotel. And unless Robert had some secret background in self-defense that Eames hadn’t uncovered in his research, Robert could be in very real trouble.

Eames quickened his pace, his eyes scanning the crowd for sign of Robert. He was certainly on his way back to the hotel, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take a detour through an alleyway or stop at a shop. Maybe Eames would get lucky in his bad luck and Robert had sprung for a cab or tuk-tuk back to the hotel. It was only a short walk though, and it seemed unlikely Robert would brave the language barrier to actually talk to someone—

Aha!

*******

“I’m sure it’ll look great on me, but I’m not interested!” Robert practically snarled at the street vendor, pushing aside the t-shirt he’d shoved in his face. God, that would teach Robert to stop at any of these little stalls that made up the night market. Not like there was anything interesting here. Just cheap trinkets and designer knock-offs. 

_ You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here anyway, are you? _

Robert swallowed hard, trying to banish the image of Charlie’s smiling face from his mind. God, why the fuck did he always get stuck on the ones he couldn’t have? It didn’t matter anyway. Charlie was nosy, and boorish, and so…so  _ pedestrian  _ it almost hurt. The brief time they’d spent together had only cemented Robert’s suspicion that they had absolutely nothing in common, anyway. There was no basis for friendship aside from them both being in the same place at the same time. 

_ Come on. It’s not talking you’re interested in doing with him, is it? _

“Hey, hey Robby!”

Robert whirled around to find Charlie jogging up behind him, a little smile on his face. Robert felt as if he’d been doused in ice water, right before the heat of embarrassment flushed through him. 

Goddamn it. As if this wasn’t all awkward enough, Charlie had tracked him down like a lost puppy. He even looked just as pleased with himself, as if oblivious to the fact that he’d essentially been ditched.

“You forgot something!” Charlie called out as he got closer. 

Surprised, Robert began checking himself. He checked his front pocket for his wallet and smartphone and found them there. A jolt went through him. Had he lost…?  He quickly reached behind himself to the small of his back, and relaxed when his fingers touched the new addition to his ensemble. He still wasn’t quite used to it yet, and it would be more than just embarrassing if he lost track of it. 

“What did I forget?” Robert asked, more than a little suspicious. He didn’t stop, but he slowed his pace, eager to be away from the brightly-lit stalls and their aggressive vendors.

“You paid way too much for your dinner,” Charlie said, just a touch too easily. “Especially since you didn’t even touch it.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out his large wad of baht.

“Will you put that away?” Robert hissed. He grabbed Charlie’s arm—pretending not to be impressed by the solid feel of his bicep under the thin cotton shirt—and dragged him deeper into the shadows of a nearby alleyway. “It’s dangerous to flash that much cash around here!”

“Oh, so now you care about me,” Charlie said, his tone somewhere between mischievous and hurt. 

Robert had the grace to look away, his cheeks heating anew. “Look, Charlie…”

“No, I get it,” Charlie said, “believe me. I’ve been skint before. It’s damn fucking hard on a man’s pride.” He counted out a few bills, and handed them out to Robert. “Don’t mean you’ve got to be careless with your cash.”

“Keep it,” Robert waved the money away. “Really, it’s not a big deal. I can afford to buy you dinner.”

Robert half expected Charlie to snort, make some joke about this being a “date” or worse, get angry. Instead, he cocked his head and gave Robert a remarkably earnest little smile. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Robby. I know you can afford it. ”

Robert hesitated a long, long moment, weighing Charlie’s words. God, was he actually being sincere? He wasn’t pitying Robert, wasn’t making fun of him, wasn’t trying to play some macho game of one-upmanship. He seemed genuine. 

Finally, Robert took the money that Charlie was offering. “This is only the extra I put on the table, right?” He counted it in his head, and it seemed to be right. “You’re not trying to secretly buy me dinner, are you?” Robert instantly regretted his words. “I mean, you’re not trying to pay my bill—”

“No.” Charlie raised his hand to stop Robert, and chuckled lightly. 

“OK. Good.” Robert swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. He had to be more careful. 

“Look, Robby, if I was trying to woo you, I’d take you somewhere a mite fucking nicer than the Freckled Monkey Pub.” 

Was it Robert’s imagination, or had Charlie’s smile turned downright devilish?

“Um?” Robert didn’t know what to say, stunned as Charlie’s words hit dangerously close to the mark. He took a deep, quiet breath, composing himself. As glad as he was that things had been smoothed over with Charlie, it was time to put this evening behind him. He’d had enough awkwardness for one night. One week. One lifetime.

“Look, Charlie, it’s been fun, but I should be getting back to the hotel,” Robert said, pulling out his wallet to put away the money. 

“You sure?” Charlie sounded disappointed. “There were a couple bars I thought we could hit up. Maybe find a little action.” He gave Robert a wink. “See what Pattaya really has to offer a couple of guys like us.”

“No thanks,” Robert sighed. Playing straight at the Go-Go bars with Charlie was the absolute last thing he wanted to do right now. His exhaustion washed over him, and he leveled his gaze at Charlie. “I really don’t like those sorts of places…”

Robert’s words trailed off. Three shadowy figures were moving up the alley behind Charlie. As they passed through the light cast by an illuminated widow, Robert saw that they were young local men, no older than twenty. For a moment, Robert hoped they were just passing through, but their deliberate saunter told a different story. Two of them were carrying glass bottles, which Robert knew could easily be turned into weapons. Charlie seemed to sense them without turning around.

“How many?” he asked quietly. He was perfectly still, his expression calm.

“Three.” Robert, on the other hand, was jittering even harder, his adrenaline surging. 

“There’s two coming round the corner behind you,” Charlie said. Robert began to turn. “Don’t look,” Charlie hissed, his tone commanding, yet even. Taking charge of the situation. “Just put your wallet in your pocket, and turn your back towards the wall.”

A cold lance of fear pierced through Robert’s gut as he slid his wallet into his pocket. He knew he should’ve been more careful about where he’d been going, where he flashed his wallet. It was one of the first lessons he’d learned in Bangkok. Now, he’d made him and Charlie obvious marks by pulling off the main road like he had. If they could make an opening in the noose that was closing around them, maybe they could make a clean break for it.

Charlie had another idea, though.

“Evening, boys.” Charlie turned to the boys with a wide smile. Robert noticed that he, too, had subtly put his back to the wall. “I suppose you’re here to rob us?”

A couple of the boys laughed roughly. Robert puzzled over Charlie’s banter.

“You.” Charlie pointed to the bigger of the two toughs who had laughed. “You must be the one in charge here.” He took a step forward, reaching into his pocket. “How’s about we skip the unpleasantness and go straight to business?” He pulled out his roll of cash, and started counting off pink 100 baht bills.

“Charlie!” Robert hissed, panic welling in his chest. He couldn’t see the youths’ faces well, but their greed shone brightly in their dark eyes as they sized up Charlie’s roll. They were murmuring in Thai, and Robert understood the language just enough to know that this was not going to go as Charlie planned. 

“How much? 500? 700?” Charlie stayed calm, casual, as he approached the leader. The youth stood stock-still as Charlie held out seven pink notes. “That about enough for you to piss off?”

The leader laughed, a high, unfriendly chuckle. With one hand, he made a grab for the offered money, and with the other, he swung the bottle towards Charlie’s head.

“Look out!” Robert yelled, but Charlie was already moving. One second he was standing in front of the leader, the next he was to the left of him, deftly ducking under the swinging bottle. Charlie reached out for the youth’s extended arm, grabbed it, and swung him into his friend.

As the two youths struggled to regain their feet, the third of the trio leapt at Charlie, his leg snapping out in a brutal kick. Charlie managed to spin out of the way to avoid taking the blow square in the chest, but it did connect with the side of his ribcage. He grunted in pain, but he seemed to shrug it off, dropping into what looked to Robert like a fighting stance, his knees bent, his arms up to protect his face. 

Robert was so intent on the fight that he’d completely forgotten about the two men at his right until they were on him. They didn’t have weapons, but they had fists and feet, and they pushed him back against the wall with a vicious jab across the face. His head snapped back, stars blossomed across his vision, and he tasted copper in his mouth. He dimly realized that he’d never been punched in the face before. They took advantage of his stunned state to ferret in his pockets, scrabbling, reaching in to try to take what was his…

Something in the back of Robert’s mind snapped, a dark feral part of him awakening. His head whipped forward, his forehead connecting with the closest thief’s face. Robert’s vision blurred again, but this time it was accompanied by a black satisfaction as the youth staggered back, howling as he clutched his nose. The second one jabbed at Robert’s stomach, and as pain radiated through his abdomen the taste of bile joined the blood in his mouth. Robert dropped to his knees, clutching his belly with both hands. The thief grabbed him by the hair and punched Robert across the face again—hard—and Robert had to fight to keep conscious. He had one chance, just once chance…

His right hand scrabbled behind his back, tearing his tucked-in shirt up, fumbling until his fingers wrapped around something hard, solid, warmed by the hours spent nestled against his body. 

He drew the gun on the thief, who stopped mid-punch when he realized what Robert was holding. It wasn’t a big gun, just a little Walther PPK, but it was enough to stop a man cold, especially at this close range. The thief let go of Robert’s hair, holding his hands up as he took a step away. Robert staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the spinning as he put one hand out to steady himself against the wall.

Seeing how wobbly he was, the thief made a swipe at the gun, trying to knock it out of Robert’s hand. Whether by reflex or luck, Robert swerved back right at that moment, out of range. 

Sudden anger swelled in him, galvanized by his gun, cutting through his fear. How dare this fucking street urchin think that he could mug him!

“Do you know who I am?” Robert’s words came out slurred, and he spat to clear the blood and bile from his mouth. He thumbed the safety off of the gun, leveling it at the thief.  “Do you know who I fucking am?”

The thief obviously didn’t even know what Robert was saying, never mind who he was, but he still raised his hands in supplication, apologizing profusely in Thai. It wasn’t good enough. A fire had been lit in Robert’s belly, bright as the street light winking over the gun’s nickel plating. He stepped forward, leveling the barrel of the gun between the thief’s eyes. 

“I’m Robert. Fucking. Fischer,” he snarled. “And no one, I mean no one, steals from me!”

“Robert, what are you doing?” Charlie’s voice was calm, cutting through the fog of Robert’s anger. 

“I’m not going to let him take anything from me. From us.”

“Robert, he’s not going to take anything. We’ve won.”

Robert still didn’t move, his entire focus centered on the thief’s face, so full of fear.

“He’s just a kid.” Charlie put his hand on Robert’s outstretched arm, pushing gently to try to shift his aim. “He’s a fuck-up, yeah, but he’s not worth killing. Let him go.”

Robert blinked, once, twice.  He looked closely at the thief, realizing just how young he was; sixteen, maybe less. He was begging, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands pressed together at the top of his head in a  _ wai _ of supplication. 

Slowly, Robert lowered the gun, his thumb automatically moving to replace the safety. As soon as the gun was off him, the boy fled, following his friends as they bolted away down the alley. 

“Rob, we’ve got to move.” Charlie shook him roughly. “The police will be here any minute.” He pointed to the windows above them, several of them open, shadows poking their heads out to watch the action.

“They were robbing us,” Robert said, slowly, dumbly. Why was it so hard to think?

“Yeah, but you have a gun, mate. They don’t take kindly to that here.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

But Robert shook his head, making the world spin even faster. He managed to slide the gun into the concealed holster under his belt, pulling his torn shirt over it. 

“Let’s go,” he said. He took a step forward, and the ground tilted. 

Before he could fall, though, Charlie was beside him. He pushed his shoulder under Robert’s armpit, wrapping an arm around his back. He led them out of the alley and out onto the main street, ignoring the odd looks they got.

“Try to keep your head down until I get us to the hotel,” he whispered, “hide the blood and bruises with that long hippy hair of yours.”

Robert couldn’t help the weak laugh that bubbled up in his chest, and it turned into a cough before it was done. “I do need a haircut, don’t I?”


	8. {Eames} Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You’re afraid of something and it’s not just of your company going bankrupt. Guns don’t scare off debt. I think something happened to you…something you don’t know how to deal with."_

“That’s it, Robby, we’re almost there.” Eames didn’t need to fake the concern in his voice as he dragged Robert through the door of his hotel suite. Robert had been alternating between chuckling and muttering for the past few minutes, and Eames was worried that he might have a concussion. God, he hoped not. Brain trauma was bad for anyone, but for someone working in dream-tech it could be downright catastrophic.

He tossed the passkey onto the TV stand and kicked the door shut behind him. The lights flickered on automatically, revealing a suite that was the same size and layout as the ones Arthur had rented for them both. No luxury penthouse for Robert these days, eh?

Eames eased Robert onto a nearby padded chair, relieved that Robert could hold himself up.

“Let me take a look at you,” Eames said gently. He tried to push aside the curtain of dark hair that hid Robert’s face, but Robert flinched back. Eames sighed. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to check you out.” He tried to be careful as he peeled away the long strands stuck to the dried blood coating Robert’s face, grimacing as he saw the angry, red flesh underneath. Next to inspect were Robert’s pupils. They dilated normally when exposed to the light. That was good.

“It’s not as bad as it feels,” he said. “Don’t look like they broke nothing.”

Robert’s eyes blinked rapidly, impossibly blue against all the red on his face. “Then why is the room spinning?”

Shit.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Robert groaned, trying to stand. Eames pushed him down, looking around for the wastebasket. He managed to get it under Robert before he lost the contents of his stomach. He looked away to give Robert a modicum of privacy, trying to keep the contents of his own stomach in check. He had a _thing_ about vomit.

Robert pushed the rubbish bin away, shaking. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. God, he was a mess. He stank of blood and vomit, his clothes torn, his face bruised. Normally, seeing a man in this far gone a state would fill Eames with revulsion. To his mild surprise, all he felt was protective.

_That all? Not even a shred of guilt, Eames? No one was supposed to get really hurt in this little surprise party you and Arthur threw for Fischer. Now look at him._

Eames swallowed hard. That had definitely been more than he’d thought Arthur would throw at him. He’d said three party guests, and Arthur had sent them five. If Robert hadn’t helped out…

Jesus, why the fuck did Robert have a fucking gun? He really must be frightened if he was packing in a country that had a zero-tolerance policy on firearms. This could have all gone to hell if Robert had actually pulled that trigger, and Eames had a feeling that Robert really might have.

Fucking Arthur and his fucking accelerated time table. If he had just let Eames do his work, he’d have Robert drunk and happy and spilling his secrets, not his guts.

“Room’s not spinning anymore,” Robert muttered.

“Good. Let’s get you into the tub. The water will help.”

Eames managed to get Robert into the bathroom, and Robert convinced him that he could handle standing upright long enough to shower. Afraid to leave him for too long, Eames kept the bathroom door cracked open, glancing up occasionally at the lean silhouette through the frosted plastic door, making sure it stayed upright.

_Finally have what you always wanted, eh, Eames? Robert Fischer, naked in a hotel room with you._

He pushed down the thought, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself. Not like this. He hadn’t wanted it to be like this.

“Where’s your suitcase?” Eames called out. “I’ll get you some fresh clothes.”

“There should be some in the dresser,” Robert said slowly.

Eames hurried to the dresser. He quickly found the clothes, pulling out a pair of black boxer briefs, a white T-shirt, and thin cotton pajama bottoms. Before he shut the drawer, though, he ran his hand under the rest of the clothes, searching for something, anything. Might as well see if he could salvage something from this debacle. However, all he found were clothes in that drawer, as well as in the next one.

The water stopped running. He only had a moment or two left. He pulled open the third, bottom drawer. His heart sank as he was greeted with simple bare wood at first, but as he opened it wider, he caught a gleam of metal sliding forward. He grinned to himself. He’d know that silver suitcase anywhere. Robert had brought his own personal PASIV device with him on holiday. Now that was information he could use.

“Charlie?”

Eames slid the drawer shut, and hurried to the bathroom door, thrusting the bundle of clothes through the crack.

“Here you go,” he said. “You holding up alright?”

“I guess,” Robert said slowly. He emerged from the bathroom a moment later, dressed. He seemed impossibly young, suddenly, in his baggy clothes and long, wet hair, his face mottled with bruises, his blue eyes hollow and evasive. It tugged at something in Eames, and he had a strange, sudden urge to pull Robert  into a strong embrace. Definitely not the sort of thing barely acquainted friends did, even after such an encounter.

Damn it. The surprise party had been supposed to bond them, a spot of light violence to bring them together as a team. It hadn’t been meant to traumatize Robert. Eames should have argued against it. But he’d trusted Arthur, his professional opinion, his judgement. Maybe…maybe he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be.

God, how was Eames going to recover this one?

Robert simply stood there, paralyzed by indecision. Eames knew what he was debating: should he tell Charlie to stay or go? It’s hard for a man to be so vulnerable in front of another, especially someone he’s just met. However, if Eames left Robert alone, Robert would just spiral down into his dark thoughts, maybe even do something stupid. Like try to hook up to the PASIV with a potential concussion. Yeah. There was no way Eames was leaving Robert alone. Not for a while.

“I’ll go get some ice for your bruises,” Eames said. He found the ice bucket on the TV stand and picked up the pass key. “Be right back.”

While out in the hallway, Eames debated whether he should contact Arthur, let him know how the party went. He knew Arthur would be awake and waiting. A flash of unexpected anger went through Eames. Let Arthur fucking wait while Eames cleaned up this mess, tried to salvage something from the wreckage.

When he returned to Robert’s suite, full ice bucket in hand, he found Robert sprawled on his made bed, eyes closed. That wasn’t good.

“Hey, Robby,” Eames called. Robert didn’t stir. “Rob?” Still nothing. Panic began to bloom in Eames’ chest. He crossed to the bed, shaking Robert’s leg. “Robert! Wake up!”

To his relief, Robert opened his eyes, looking confused and tired.

“Sorry, Robby. No sleep for you for a while,” Eames said with an apologetic smile. “Gotta make sure you didn’t damage that big brain of yours.”

“Great. I can’t sleep for weeks, and now when I finally feel like I can, I’m not allowed.” Robert snorted bitterly.

Eames took it as a good sign. He busied himself with creating a makeshift ice pack out of a plastic bag and a hand towel, trying to ignore the holstered gun that Robert had brought out of the bathroom and placed on the bedside table. That conversation could wait. Instead, Eames sat on the edge of the bed, encouraging Robert to sit up, and placed the ice pack on the angry red bruise on Robert’s jaw.

“There we go,” Eames said softly.

He looked up from the bruise, realizing suddenly that Robert was staring at him intently, his crystal blue gaze cutting straight to Eames’ core.

“Why did you come back?” Robert whispered.

Eames’ heart stopped in his chest. Did…did Robert somehow remember him; have an imprint of Eames buried deep within that battered subconscious? A sickening hope rose in his chest, hot and horrid, and Eames realized with a start that this time, some sick little part of him actually _wanted_ Robert to remember him.

_If he did, then you could just be honest with him._

“You could have gone, Charlie. Left the room key…” Robert trailed off, finally looking away. He took the ice pack from Eames’ hand and leaned back against the headboard.

Freed from Robert’s scrutiny, Eames could finally draw a shaking breath, reorient himself. He was being ridiculous.

_Focus. Head in the game, Eames, or you are going to lose everything._

“I had your ice bucket, remember?” Eames tried to lighten the mood, but the deepening frown on Robert’s face told him the time for levity had passed. It was time to try a different tactic.

“Because I’m worried about you,” Eames said slowly. “I’ve never seen a bloke so absolutely miserable when he’s supposed to be enjoying his hols. I figured at first I’d just try to see if I could cheer you up some, ’cause half the fun of traveling alone is the mates you make along the way. But now…” Eames nodded towards the gun on the bedside table, “I think you need more than a night out. I think you need some genuine help.”

Robert was silent, absolutely still.

“Look, I know I’m not much, just another tourist, but you’re not the first fella I’ve seen like this.” Eames took a deep breath. He had a made-up story for every situation, and this one might do the trick. “You’re a lot like my mate, after he came back from the service.”

That got Robert’s attention, and he turned back to Eames. “A friend of yours?”

“Mmhmm. Broderick. He did a tour in Afghanistan. After he came back home, Broddy seemed normal enough at first; came to work for me, started dating again, took up the guitar.” Eames looked pointedly at Robert. “But he couldn’t sleep. He became...paranoid. Sure that he was being watched, being followed. He started carrying his service pistol around.”

“What happened to him?” Robert asked carefully, as if afraid to know the answer.

“He’s living in a center now,” Eames said quietly. “Best thing for everyone. Post-traumatic stress, they said. If we’d known sooner, we might have been able to help him, kept things from getting as bad as they did in the end…”

Robert looked away, his lips pressed into a tight, white line. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Eames said, “just…just trying to tell you maybe I can help you. You’re afraid of something and it’s not just of your company going bankrupt. Guns don’t scare off debt. I think something happened to you…something you don’t know how to deal with.”

Silence filled the room for a long, long time, Robert refusing to look at Eames as he iced his jaw. Finally, Eames sighed, and stood. It seemed like it was time to cut his losses for now.

“I had a dream.” Robert spoke so softly that Eames had to strain to hear him.

“Say again?” Eames sat back down on the bed, slowly.

“I had a dream,” Robert said, louder. He still wasn’t looking at Eames. “It changed everything.”

“When?” His pulse sped up.

“A couple years ago. Right after my father died.”

“What was it about?”

Robert laughed, low and hollow. Finally, he met Eames’ eyes, and Eames had to force himself not to flinch when he saw the hints of mania dancing around the blue irises.

“My life. How I’d just spent my entire life doing what my father wanted me to. First….first I was kidnapped, then I was in this hotel with a bodyguard, and then I had to fight my way into this…this hospital in a mountain fortress in the snow…then I was kidnapped by this crazy woman for what felt like forever…and it felt _real_. Real as anything else I’ve ever lived through.” He slumped against the headboard, and closed his eyes. “God, I sound so fucking crazy.”

Eames shook his head, even as his heart was hammering in his chest. “Dreams always sound crazy when you explain them.”

“What’s even crazier is trying to recreate them.” Robert swallowed hard.

“Recreate them? That can’t be possible!” Eames forced his face into an expression of confusion, even as his excitement was building. Yes, finally he was getting somewhere!

“It is possible. I’ve done it. I’ve managed to recreate that dream, multiple times. Everything except…” he trailed off.

_“Except what?”_ Eames wanted to scream, but he managed to keep himself silent. When it was obvious that Robert wasn’t going to elaborate, Eames decided to switch tactics.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why recreate a dream?” Eames asked, carefully. “I mean, sure, I can understand wanting to relive a dream where you’re lost on a desert island with Kate Upton, but why rebuild something that was so…so traumatizing?”

“Because it wasn’t my dream.”

“Come again?”

“Someone put that dream into my head.”

Robert’s sharp gaze cut into Eames like an arrow striking home, and for one horrible moment, he couldn’t breathe _._

_He knows, he knows it was me—_

“How much do you know about dream sharing?” Robert asked.

_He doesn’t know._

“Not much, I’m afraid. Just what I’ve heard about on the news, and I did the somnivids when I visited London last year.”

“Have you heard about extraction?”

“I think so. Something big wigs have done to each other to get each other’s secrets of industry…” Eames let his words trail off, and he squinted at Robert with a sly little smile. “Big wigs like you and your old cronies.”

“It’s a weapon. A powerful one. My father, however, didn’t believe in it. Said it was a fantasy, an excuse for weakness and bad business strategies.” Robert let out a dry chuckle. “So, I had to have myself trained against it without him knowing. I paid a team of specialists to show me how to defend my subconscious against an attack on my dreams.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. So _that_ was why Arthur hadn’t found any record on Robert’s training when they’d profiled him for inception—Robert had done it under the table. God, Eames would kill to know who Robert had paid to teach him.

“That sounds bloody crazy.”

“It _was_ crazy…and…and I loved it. I kept going back. I wanted to learn more. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was creative, raw. Just pure…” He tapped his fingers, searching for the word.

“Freedom.” It slipped out before Eames could stop himself. He knew exactly what he meant.

“Yes!” Robert exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. “I could do things I never could in real life. My trainers would create these games for me—war games, car racing games, mazes, you name it.”

Genuine excitement brightened his features. Eames’s stomach did an odd little twist as he realized this was the first time he’d ever seen Robert genuinely smile. God, it was a lovely sight.

“So…what’s this got to do with the dream you had after your dad died?” Eames asked.

He almost wished he hadn’t said anything. Robert’s face fell, the enthusiasm dimming as quickly as someone dialing down the lights on a chandelier.

“Despite all this training, all these games—I still wasn’t able to defend myself when a real attack came.” Robert let out a long sigh, and sank back against the pillows. “Whoever they were, they were good. So good it took me months to realize they’d even been there. But the more time went on, the more my life—the more I—changed, the more I realized that…that that had to be the obvious explanation.”

Eames rubbed a hand over his mouth, his mind racing.  How to tease out the details without giving himself away?

“How did you know?”

“I…it’s…it’s hard to explain.”

“Try. I’m damn bloody curious now.”

“Okay.” Robert sat up again, the light of interest gleaming in his eyes again. “Most dreams, you wake up and realize just how surreal they are. You’re at work, but it’s in an amusement park, and your boss is being played by your 5th grade teacher, that sort of thing. In constructed dreams—especially shared dreams—they’re a bit more linear. It’s like you’re watching a play almost. They make more sense, and when you wake up, you remember the details a lot more clearly.”

Eames was impressed. It had taken him weeks of dream sharing to really pinpoint the differences between constructed dreams and natural ones. Robert had obviously spent a lot of time working with the PASIV. Maybe too much time.

Robert continued. “I remembered the dream on the plane with near crystal clarity. I’d honestly just chalked it up to grief at the time. But weeks later, I could still clearly recall the crunch of snow under my boots, the smell of the woman’s perfume, the…” he swallowed hard, “the genuine terror of being kidnapped at gunpoint.”

Eames’ stomach knotted again, the sense of guilt sweeping through him. He nodded at the gun on the nightstand.

“That…that why you’re carrying your piece around now?” he asked.

Robert rubbed his hand over his mouth and he looked at the gun with something akin to revulsion. “It’s the only way I feel safe anymore. I have a feeling there’s a lot of really dangerous people who aren’t going to be too happy if I can pull off what I’m trying to.”

_People just like me._

Eames swallowed hard, a sheen of cold sweat blooming over his body.

“So what’s your problem?” It was hard, so hard, to keep his voice innocent, confused. “Sounds like you got most of this crazy dream stuff figured out.”

Robert put down his ice pack, and used both his hands to rake his fingers through his damp hair.

“The problem is that I can recreate everything in the dream: the weather, the scenery, the action…everything but the faces.”

_Ah ha!_

“There are faces I just…I just can’t recreate. And I know, I know they’re the key to all this!” The mania was returning to Robert’s eyes. “If I could pinpoint them, then I can…I can find—”

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Eames reached out and places a soothing hand on Robert’s knee. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I’ve been working on this one dream for over a year,” Robert growled, his voice tinged with despair. “Every day I spend hours asleep, combing through the details, trying different tactics, chemicals—”

“Wait, you do this every day?” Eames didn’t have to pretend his shock.

“I have to!” Robert snapped. “If I don’t figure this out, my company is dead before it even starts! It’s not like I have investors lining up around the block.” He sighed, calming himself. “It’s the whole fucking reason I’m here. I’m supposed to be taking a break, resting my brain. All I can think about it getting back to work.”

There. There was the angle in.

“I was right about you,” Eames said.

“About what?”

“You do need to fucking relax. You’re wound tighter than a Swiss watch, Robby—and yeah, I get you’ve got a lot on the line. I really do.” Eames scooted forward. “But you’re making yourself crazy. You…you almost shot a man tonight. A boy.”

Robert looked down, but Eames could still see the guilt, the shame flickering across his face. “He was going to rob us,” he whispered. “I had to stop him.”

“I know. You did,” Eames said gently. “But killing…think you can save your company from inside a Thai prison? I’ve heard what they’re like, and I’m pretty sure they don’t have Wi-Fi.”

Robert looked up, and to Eames’ surprise, his lame joke had elicited the barest ghost of a smile.

Eames pressed on. “Look, Robby, I know we just met, but…I want to help you. Maybe…maybe this is the universe giving me a second chance after I wasn’t able to help Broderick, or maybe this is just fucking luck. But really. I want to help.”

“Help me?” Robert’s smile faded, replaced by his old skepticism. “How do you propose to help me?”

Eames leaned forward on the bed and gave Robert his most mischievous smile.

“I am going to show you how to have a good time.”

“I…” Wait…was Robert actually _blushing_?

“You just said the key to saving your company—and your sanity—rested on you letting that big brain of yours take a real break. Well, you’re not going to do that by moping around all by yourself. You’ll just start thinking of all the things that are worrying you and start obsessing on your work. So. What you need is someone to help keep your mind off of everything, remind you of why you came here in the first place. To unwind. To relax. To have fun.”

Robert looked like he was on the verge of giving in. “I’ve been in Thailand for years, and have still never gotten a real massage,” Robert said slowly. His gaze darted to meet Eames’, but skipped away before he could make any real contact. He was actually embarrassed! It was sweet, really, and Eames felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.  He tried to push it down without examining it, dismissing it as his body’s natural urge. It was a distraction, a hopeless distraction if Eames had read Robert correctly.

“We’ll get a massage tomorrow afternoon  if you want,” he said with a laugh. “Then I’ll show you what’s it’s like to actually relax and have a little fun. Try some of the local cuisine, maybe get you to drink something stronger than watered down beer.” His smile turned suggestive. “And maybe we’ll go out and see some of those clubs Pattaya is so famous for.”

“Uh uh,” Robert shook his head, suddenly serious again. “No strip clubs.”

“Oh, Robby, darling, they’re not _strip_ clubs here.” Eames widened his smile. “They start naked and go from there.”

“I said no,” Robert said, even more vehemently.

“All right, no strip clubs, I promise. You’re the boss, Robby.” Eames backed off quickly. He wasn’t about to undo all the good he’d done pushing a point he wasn’t even interested in himself. It was curious, though. What did Robert have against strip clubs?

Seemingly satisfied, Robert sagged against the cushions and shut his eyes. He opened them almost immediately.

“Is it safe for me to sleep yet?”

Eames looked at his watch.

“For a little bit. I’m going to have to wake you up in a couple hours, though.”

Robert cocked his head. “You planning on spending the night?”

Eames’s stomach did an unexpected flip.

_Yes, wouldn’t you like to spend the night with Robert?_

He made himself get up off the bed and head for the couch along the wall. “Got no choice, mate, with a head bump like that. Unless you want to schedule wake-up calls at the front desk for every three hours.”

Robert grunted in acquiescence and scooted down the bed, not bothering to get under the covers. Before he closed his eyes, though, he fixed Eames with a curious look.

“Where did you learn to fight like that, Charlie?”

“Like what?” Eames played dumb.

“Like Steven Seagal,” Robert chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move like that in person.”

Eames shrugged, weighing his options. “Been taking jiu-jitsu at the gym for a few years now. Guess the lessons finally paid off.”

“Ah.” Robert seemed satisfied, and he closed his eyes briefly before opening them again.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No worries, mate.” Eames fixed Robert with a friendly grin.

As Robert settled down to sleep, Eames pulled out his phone to set an alarm for two hours from then. He saw the little icon in the top corner that told him he had two waiting text messages. Seeing as only Arthur had the number for this phone...  

He sent Arthur a quick text in reply: “Everything OK. Breakfast at your place, 8 a.m.” Then, just to annoy Arthur, he threw in a winky face.


	9. {Arthur} Power Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"“We’re not partners anymore, Eames. I’m the one bankrolling this operation, so it’s my fucking job!”_

By the time Eames finally knocked at Arthur’s door, Arthur half-considered not letting him in. He didn’t like being shut out like this. He had no idea what had happened after the surprise party, how it had gone, whether it had succeeded in “bonding” Robert to Eames. He’d only stayed long enough to make sure that the boys would actually follow through on their agreement, and then he’d headed back to the hotel to wait for Eames. But he had never come. Just a late, late text with a goddamn winky face.

Arthur checked the peephole to make sure it was Eames before he unlocked the door for him. He was already turning back to the room-service breakfast waiting on the table before Eames slunk in.

“You’re late,” Arthur snapped.

“Give or take a few minutes.” 

“Try 45.” Arthur gave him a sharp glare as he seated himself, picking up his coffee cup. 

“What can I say? It was a hard night.” As Eames slumped into the chair across from him, Arthur finally got a good look at him. He was wearing the same motley disguise from the night before, but now it was rumpled, and Arthur thought he caught a few small blood spots blending in with the busy tropical pattern. Eames looked about as bedraggled as his outfit, his hair disheveled and his skin sallow. 

“Hell of a surprise party you throw,” Eames muttered, and shot Arthur a glare. He helped himself to the last piece of toast in the basket, not bothering to butter it before cramming half of it into his mouth. “You said there would only be three of them.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t really pick and choose on such short notice.” He nodded towards Eames. “You seem to have come out all right. How’s Fischer?”

Eames poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. He drank deeply, grimacing at the bitter brew. 

“He pulled a fucking gun on them.”

“A gun?” Arthur was aghast. “How did he even get a gun into Thailand?”

“I don’t know.” Eames sighed deeply. “It would’ve been good for us to know about, now, wouldn’t it? The whole operation almost went south right there. I had to talk him out of shooting one of the kids.”

A pang of remorse went through Arthur. He hadn’t thought he was putting anyone’s life in danger, even if he’d known Eames was going to rough them up a bit. 

“Why is he carrying a gun?” Arthur asked, hiding his unease with curiosity.

“Because of us.” Eames finished his toast and grabbed a cold piece of bacon off the serving plate. “He’s suffering from a bit of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“From the inception?” Arthur balked. “How can a shared dream cause PTSD?”

“If it feels real enough, I suppose, and we put a  _ lot _ of work into making it seem as real as possible. It’s absolutely possible that he’s having a stress-based emotional response to it, especially since he’s been reliving it almost every day.”

“Wait, what?” Arthur leaned forward, curiosity pushing aside his concern. “Tell me everything.”

Eames filled Arthur in on what had happened the night before: the awkward dinner, Robert’s sudden disappearance from the pub, the surprise party, the conversation in the hotel room where Robert had finally confided in Charlie.

“So it worked. Fischer’s beginning to trust you.” Arthur said, trying not to sound as pleased as he suddenly felt. A small voice whispered from the back of his mind:  _ see, the ends do justify the means. _

“Not me. Charlie,” Eames said slowly.

Arthur looked at Eames carefully, concerned by the tone in his voice. He wasn’t starting to have regrets, was he? This had been his idea. Arthur had even checked with him on the plane in order to make sure he understood that they were essentially planning on ruining Fischer—and an emotional break-down usually came close on the heels of financial collapse. The knot in Arthur’s chest tightened as he watched Eames eat, and he realized that he looked more than just a little tired. He looked worried. Arthur had to keep Eames focused, in the game. Especially if they were actually making progress.

“How long until you think you can get him to dream-share with you?”

Eames let out his breath in a long, deflating sigh. “Dunno. Couple of days, maybe?”

“We leave in a couple of days,” Arthur reminded Eames. “I can’t afford to stay away from the office any longer.”

“Then leave me here, and I’ll see if I can find the information myself.” Eames shrugged. 

“Not an option,” Arthur said, more sharply than he meant to. No way he was leaving Eames unsupervised with an open line of credit. He’d bankrupt Arthur with one bad hand of cards. “You need me to perform the actual extraction, remember?” he said instead.

Eames nodded slowly, even as his shrewd gaze cut into Arthur. Arthur tried not to flinch. He wasn’t the one with the gambling problem, was he?

“He has a PASIV with him,” Eames said slowly. “I might be able to arrange something tomorrow morning or afternoon. I’m supposed to be helping him relax today, get his mind off work, so it’ll be a tricky maneuver to go from poolside massages to dream-share for fun in less than 24 hours. I don’t know if I can do it.”

Arthur thought for a long minute, absently rubbing a stray crumb of toast between his thumb and forefinger. 

“What if he didn’t even know he was dreaming?” Arthur said slowly. 

Eames shot him a sharp look. “I told you, his subconscious is going to be so hard-wired against invasion—”

“I know. So, what if he doesn’t even know he’s sleeping? Goes seamlessly from getting a poolside massage to having a dream where he’s having a poolside massage? No change of environment, no guided scenario, nothing to tip him off.”

“Something is going to tip him off. No. It’s too risky. He’s so damn paranoid, and he’s been doing so much dream-share, he’s bound to figure it out.”

“If you’re there to put him at ease, there’s less of a chance of that,” Arthur insisted.

“And what about you? The second his security finds you rooting around in his room, in his suitcase…”

“That’s brilliant, of course he’ll be hiding his secrets in his suitcase.”

“He’ll know something is wrong. Security will flood the hotel…no. No, no, no!” Eames stood up abruptly. 

“What difference will it make if I get caught when he doesn’t even know he’s dreaming versus if he does?” Arthur’s voice rose along with his temper. “I’m not supposed to be in there anyway. If he finds me, I’m fucked. We’re both fucked. Especially when he wakes up and sees us all hooked up together!” 

Eames went pale, his lips tightening. It surprised Arthur just how much the thought of getting caught was rattling Eames. Usually he delighted in the challenge, the trickier the job the better. What the hell was going on? 

Eames took a deep breath through his nose, and when he spoke, his words were clipped. “Look. I know you’re used to running the job, but right now I’m the one who’s fucking neck-deep in undercover work. You’re going to have to trust my lead.”

“And you’re going to have to respect my timeline,” Arthur shot back. Anger surged through him unexpectedly. “We’re not partners anymore, Eames. I’m the one bankrolling this operation, so it’s my fucking job!”

Eames’ jaw dropped, and he gave a harsh laugh. “You sound just like Cobb, you know that?”

“And you sound like an old extractor who’s losing his game!” Arthur snapped. His patience had finally run out. “I know why you came to me with this job, Eames. You need money. A steady stream of income to float you and your fucking gambling problems through the rest of your life, because you know as well as I do that once we can trace extractions no one’s going to come knocking anymore! You’re part of a dying breed, Eames, and you know you’re not fucking smart enough to actually make it in the real world!”

Silence filled the hotel room. Eames’ face had gone from white to red, his hands balled up into fists at his side. Arthur half-expected him to take a swing, and he readied himself without appearing like he was. Eames wasn’t the only one who was good in a fight.

“You want to try to hit me, go ahead. It’s not going to change anything, except that your finder’s fee is going to drop from eighteen percent to five,” Arthur murmured. 

Eames’ fingers relaxed, but his shoulders didn’t. He simply stared at Arthur with a mix of fury and disgust.

“You treat your friends a lot differently than you used to,” Eames said quietly, already stepping towards the door.

“Maybe it’s time you realized that we’re not friends anymore.” Arthur said quietly. “I’m your client. Now get the job done, Mr. Eames.”

Without another word or look back, Eames left. He tried to slam the hotel door, but the hydraulics wouldn’t let him, and it simply drifted shut behind him with a sigh.

Only when the door was completely shut did Arthur let out the breath he’d been holding and rolled his head across his shoulders. That…that hadn’t been pleasant at all. True, there had been a time when Arthur has considered Eames a friend—one of the few he would’ve trusted to have his back. But those days were long behind them, even before the first Fischer job. Things were different now, and would only be getting more so as time and technology moved on. Arthur had given Eames the chance to join him on the right side of the growing divide, but he’d refused. Now he had to deal with the consequences—and that included realizing who was the boss now. 

Arthur sat back down at the table and returned to his laptop. He’d had an idea for a trial to throw at Fischer that he’d wanted to run by Eames, but there was no way he was going to tell him now. The way he was acting, he’d probably try to talk Arthur out of it, tell him Fischer was too shaky to handle it. 

No, the person who was getting shaky was Eames, and Arthur was starting to wonder if Eames was really up to this job. It was one thing to talk about driving a man to ruin, and another to look him in the eye while he did it—especially while pretending to be his friend. Arthur didn’t envy his position—but that’s why he had never gone into the con game himself. If you can’t stand the heat…

Arthur tapped a few buttons on his keyboard, and pulled out his phone. 

“Hello? This is Robert Fischer. I need to report my credit card stolen. Yeah, my security code is…” He answered all the prompts, reading Fischer’s personal account information off his computer screen.  Nice to see he wasn’t as rusty at hacking as Eames was at pulling a con. 

As Arthur hung up the phone, he fought back the pang of guilt. Yeah, that was a dick thing to do to Fischer—especially in light of what Eames had told him about Fischer’s pride—but it wasn’t like he was going to starve before he got it all sorted out. Charlie would take care of him—with Arthur’s money—and this way, Eames’ reaction, his generosity, would be sincere. 

Doubt still nagged at Arthur, though. Eames was acting strangely, and now, especially in light of their blow-up, Arthur wasn’t quite sure what he’d do. An hour ago, Arthur would’ve been sure that Eames would stay professional, stick to the job, especially knowing how much Eames stood to gain from their success. Eames wouldn’t drop the con, would he? Or worse—blow the cover and tell Fischer who had hired him?

No. That was paranoid thinking. 

_ Or are you just covering your ass, Arthur? Everything you’ve built is at stake here. If Fischer finds out the truth about the inception, about this new con…about Saito… _

Arthur shuddered. No, Fischer could not find out about Saito.

Arthur would follow them again tonight, this time without Eames knowing. And if he was going to blow the con…well, Arthur would just have to find a way to stop him, now, wouldn’t he?


	10. {Robert * Eames} Pattaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You are having a good time tonight, Robert Fischer, no matter what the cost."_

“What do you mean my credit card has been declined?” Robert hissed. His face burned and the vein in his forehead throbbed as disbelief coursed through him. Never, ever in his life had Robert’s credit ever been declined.

The hotel clerk behind the desk shrank a bit, though he remained politely resolute. “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Fischer, but when we ran your card for your bar tab yesterday we saw the decline. We tried again, and…” the clerk swallowed hard, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask for a different card number, or…”

“Or what? You’ll kick me out?” Robert couldn’t believe it. He felt like he was in some sort of strange dream—in fact, he hoped he was. He actually _felt_ around the edges, trying to discern the illusion…nope. It was real. Real and horrible and humiliating. He looked at the clerk’s name badge. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Tanet,” Robert said in his iciest boardroom voice, “my credit is good. You get on the phone right now with the card company or so help me God I will buy this fucking slum of a resort just so I can fire you all and burn it to the ground.”

The clerk paled, and with a deep _wai_ , scurried off to the back office. It was only when Robert saw the way the other guests at the desk looked at him—a mix of fear and awe and disgust—that realization dawned on Robert.

_You just sounded exactly like your father._

Robert felt sick to his stomach. That was it. Between the attempted mugging and now this debacle, he’d had enough of this vacation. He turned and headed for the elevators. He would go upstairs, pack his bags, and call a private car back to his apartment in Bangkok. He could hide at home for a few days, catch up on some reading, and then go back to the office with some fabricated stories to appease Dr. Sharp—

“Hey! Robby! Robert!”

Robert turned to find Charlie rushing up to him. He was wearing yet another garish tropical shirt—red hibiscus flowers against a bright ocean backdrop—and a look of deep concern. Robert felt a pang in his stomach. Charlie. He was so mad he’d almost forgotten about their plans.

“What’s wrong, mate? Aren’t you ready to head out?” Charlie asked. He gave Robert a once-over, taking in his evening ensemble with an appraising smile. Robert had opted to stay somewhat casual, picking a light blue, short-sleeved button-down shirt to go with his grey slacks and black oxfords. He’d even made the effort to iron his clothes this time, and had braved his bruises to shave off the pathetic attempt for a beard he’d been trying to grow. He’d been somewhat pleased with the results...though now it seemed it’d been a fucking waste of time.

The clerk returned to the desk, his brow furrowing in concern to see Robert gone. He looked around the lobby until he found him by the elevators, and then, biting his lip, he shook his head. Then, with another deep _wai_ , he disappeared into the back office before Robert could unleash another torrent of wrath.

“No, Charlie. I’m leaving.” Robert sighed. He was suddenly so very, very tired. The elevator opened, and Robert waited for the passengers to disembark before stepping on. Charlie followed and hit the door close button before anyone else could get on behind them.

“Leaving? Come on now, I know we hit a rough patch last night, but I promise you, tonight will be much bett—”

“My credit card was declined.” God, Robert’s whole body clenched just to hear himself say it out loud. If his father knew just how far Robert had sunk...

“Probably a mistake,” Charlie said, trying to sound reassuring, “or a scam. Can’t be too careful, places like this are always out to get your money. First they tell you they can’t charge one card, then you give them another, then they charge both. You don’t realize it until you’re home, and then you have a nightmare time trying to sort it out with the credit card companies at h—”

“I don’t have another card!” Robert blurted out, cutting Charlie off. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a scam, I don’t have another number to give them. I had to trim a lot a corners…” He trailed off, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “So. I give up. I’m going home.”

Robert braced himself, ready for another joke, a wheedling plea for him to reconsider. Instead, there was silence. It almost made it worse. Charlie had never been quiet in Robert’s company. When Robert finally dared look at him, he almost couldn’t bear his open concern—his blue-grey eyes earnest and warm, his full lips pressed into a worried line. It was almost too much…especially when the way Charlie’s tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip made Robert’s belly quiver.

Robert sighed as he looked away. “Thanks for trying to help, really. I’m sorry we didn’t get to go out like you wanted.”

“Bollocks,” Charlie said. “This is just a little setback.”

“Charlie, I can’t afford it!” God, that hurt to admit almost as much as getting punched in the face had.

“Yes, you can. Your funds are just tied up at the moment.” Charlie leaned back against the elevator wall with an easy smile. “I know you’re good for it if I spot you the dosh.”

Robert’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “No. I know you mean well, but I don’t borrow—”

“Fine,” Charlie huffed. “It’s a gift then! Was planning on buying your drinks anyway, you stubborn bastard, make me spell it out for you.”

“I…”

Charlie suddenly pushed himself off the elevator wall. He stopped so close to Robert that he could smell the mint on his breath, the musk of his sweat, the spice of his Oud Noir cologne. Robert’s favorite.

“You are having a good time tonight, Robert Fischer, no matter what the cost,” Charlie said, dead serious. His eyes didn’t waver from Robert’s, and for a moment, Robert swore Charlie was a different man—a harder man, someone who didn’t take no for an answer.

The same man who’d saved his life in the alleyway last night.

Robert swallowed hard, heat racing through his body. Every shallow breath he took was full of Charlie, and for one wild second he had the impulse to reach out, pull Charlie closer, crush that fucking perfect mouth against his…

Was it Robert’s imagination, or did Charlie’s gaze actually flicker down to his lips in kind?

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on Robert’s floor. Charlie actually swallowed hard, then stepped backwards off the elevator.

“Or so help me God I will track your sorry arse down in Bangkok and try again.” Charlie chuckled, pointing at Robert with a smirk. Back to his usual joking self just like that.

Robert let out his breath in a long, slow stream, struggling to compose himself. Wow. What the hell had just happened?  Suddenly, it didn’t seem like Charlie was quite as off-limits at Robert had originally thought he was.

Maybe it was a foolish hope. Maybe he was just reading too much into a single moment. Or maybe Robert just really didn’t want to be alone right now. Whatever it was, Robert decided to take a chance. Even if nothing came of tonight, he could still enjoy the view, right?

“OK, fine! You win!” Robert spread his hands in supplication, giving a short laugh. His humor was short-lived as he remembered something important. “I have to check out of the hotel, though. They’re not going to let me stay another night.”

“Just toss your stuff in my room for the night, we’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Charlie said easily.

Robert’s pulse surged again. Just when he’d gotten himself under control, too. Stay the night in Charlie’s room? God, it was tempting, so very, very tempting...

“I don’t know. They’ll probably want me out after the scene I made.” Robert stopped at his door. Luckily, the key card still worked. For now.

“Ah, fuck ‘em. Not like you pulled a gun on them. Right?” Charlie asked as they stepped into Robert’s room.

“No!”

Charlie raised his hands in mock defensiveness. “It’s a valid question these days!”

Robert couldn’t help the laugh escaped him. “Fair enough.”

“Look, start packing, and I’ll get us started on the drinks.” Charlie grabbed the ice bucket off the table.

“I don’t think raiding the mini-bar—”

“What did I say?” Charlie gave him a devilish grin that made Robert’s heart almost stop.

“Fuck ‘em,” he practically whispered.

“Good man,” Charlie beamed. “We’ll show these bastards who they’re dealing with.”

“By increasing my tab on my declined credit card?” Robert laughed again. “How will that show them anything?”

“Show them you’re not ashamed of nothing. You’re your own man, you set your own rules.”

The words struck Robert so hard that he almost swayed on his feet. He looked at Charlie with newfound admiration. It was almost like he knew the perfect thing to say.

“Set them up. Let’s get tonight started.”

“That’s my boy.” Charlie beamed, and Robert tried to pretend his smile didn’t warm him down to the core. “Just promise me you’ll leave your piece behind tonight, yeah?”

****

_Arthur, what the fuck did you do?_

Eames fumed silently for the hundredth time that night. With Robert in the men’s room, Eames could drop his cheerful mask for a moment, vent the hot press of anger that had been churning inside of him since Robert had told him about his declined card. Eames wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Arthur was behind this, but it seemed like a pretty damn big coincidence.

_Is this your way of showing me how you’re in charge of this con, Arthur? Changing the board while I’m still a piece in play?_

Eames took a long drink of his scotch and soda. It was the second he’d had since they’d entered the nightclub, and between their “warm-up” at the hotel and the rounds of shots at the first bar they’d stopped at, Eames was feeling more than a little loose. He was skirting on drunk, and he knew that he had to be extra careful about what he said. But really, right now, he didn’t give a shit. Not about Arthur, not about the job. Eames just wanted to drown the sick feeling he’d had in the pit of his belly since the morning meeting.

_“And you sound like an old extractor who’s losing his game!”_

Eames shook his head, as if he could physically fling the ugly words out of his mind. He was usually pretty good about letting insults roll off his back, but coming from Arthur, it had...well, it had struck a nerve, to say the least. True, he and Arthur hadn’t been honest-to-God friends in years, but Eames had still seen them as colleagues. Equals. Apparently, Arthur didn’t feel the same way. He was above Eames now—wealthy, connected, and respectable.

Eames’ phone buzzed once in his pocket, announcing the arrival of a text message from Arthur. He tried to ignore it, he really did, but curiosity got the better of him. He checked the screen: _Private massage in hotel spa, tomorrow morning 11 a.m. Compliments of the hotel as apology for the card mix-up. Refreshments will be served._

Eames’ stomach clenched. Well, that confirmed his suspicions. Arthur had been behind the fund freeze after all, and now he was going to use it to lure Fischer into the extraction point. Arthur had probably already paid off the masseuses to leave the three of them alone once Robert was under, which meant it was Eames’ job to make sure Robert got there and imbibed the sedative-laced “refreshments.” Never mind that Eames thought that this was a fucking horrible idea.

 _“We’re not partners anymore, Eames._ _I’m the one bankrolling this operation, so it’s my fucking job!”_

“Everything all right?” Robert’s face appeared in front of Eames suddenly, materializing out of the dark club to be illuminated by the screen of the smart phone. He was just leaning over to be heard over the upbeat Euro-pop playing over the club’s speakers, but Eames still jumped and hastened to turn off the screen.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” Eames shoved the phone in his pocket and forced a smile.

Robert, however, arched an eyebrow at Eames suspiciously as he picked up his half-finished rum and coke. “You sure? Looks like you just got some bad news.”

“It’s nothing.” Eames waved his hand dismissively, not meeting Robert’s eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to straighten his mask, so to speak. He had a role to play. He motioned to the bartender to pour him a glass of water. Best slow things down a bit.

“Nothing? You look about mad enough to pick a fight,” Robert said slowly. He slammed back his drink. “Want to?”

Eames blinked rapidly in surprise, and looked at Robert with a strange mix of curiosity, fear, and admiration. Was Robert more drunk that Eames had thought? He was a mite lighter than Eames, and he had been keeping up drink for drink. God, he might be serious. There was a glint in his eyes, a sardonic twist to his lips. Those impossibly full lips, which had been beautifully distracting Eames from his anger throughout the course of the evening...

“How about them?” Robert pointed out a pair of muscled, sun-burned tourists who were futilely trying to hit on group of attractive young backpacker types. “We could totally take them on. Especially with your mad Steven Seagal moves.”

“You’re bloody insane!” Eames chuckled, though a little uncomfortably. “One fight on this trip isn’t enough for you?”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll do it.” Robert shrugged, then looked Eames straight in the eye. “I’d rather you just tell me what’s suddenly eating at you.”

Eames swallowed hard as he forced himself to hold Robert’s gaze. He looked so fucking sincere, and as he gave Eames a small, genuine smile, Eames’ heart leapt against his ribs. God, Robert was gorgeous, especially when he was concerned enough to start a bar fight so Charlie could vent off some steam. It was a completely misguided gesture, but one that Eames was surprisingly touched by.

“After I dumped all my problems on you yesterday, it seems only fair that I try to return the favor.” Robert leaned closer, and Eames could smell the tang of his sweat mingling with the crispness of his cologne, dizzyingly intoxicating. In his off-kilter state, it was the last little push he needed. Maybe, just maybe, if Eames was careful, he could actually confide in Robert.

“I had a fight…with Priscilla today.” It was the first thing that popped into his head. Wasn’t too far from the truth. Arthur was practically an ex at this point. Ex-colleague. Ex-partner. Ex-friend.

“Oh.” Robert sounded surprised, almost as if he’d forgotten about Charlie’s imaginary girlfriend. His brow furrowed once again, and Eames wondered if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It happens.” Eames shrugged, taking a sip of his water. “Though, if I’m honest with myself, all we’ve ever really done is fight.”

“Sex must be good then,” Robert murmured.

Eames had to try his hardest not to snort. Sex with _Arthur_? Please.

“It’s nothing special, to be honest. She’s not very imaginative.”

“You been together for a long time?”

“We were a…a thing a long time ago. Practically another lifetime. And we were good. But things happen. People drift apart, change. I kind of missed her, though, so I figured maybe we could give it another go.” Eames swallowed down another gulp of water. “I guess there’s no going back sometimes.”

“It can be hard to move forward,” Robert said. “Especially when you keep being reminded of what you lost.”

“You can say that again. Feel like all my mates are settling down, getting steady jobs. Me? I like my freedom. Being my own boss, for the most part. Not answering to some know-it-all prick who thinks he knows better than me how to do my fucking job.”

“Amen to that,” Robert murmured. He went quiet for a long moment. “So, did she figure out you weren’t actually in Bangkok on business?”

Eames squirmed a little, wondering how to play this without coming off as a total slime. It was an odd realization—he actually cared what Robert thought of him.

 _Not_ you.  _Charlie. Keep it straight in your head, Eames!_

“We decided not to be exclusive to start. Thought it might help things, ease back in,” Eames said carefully. It sounded convincing.

“Ah. Let me guess? So far you’re the only one of the two of you who’s exercising the non-exclusivity clause?”

“Something like that. Not my fault I’m so fucking charming.” He gave Robert a wide, roguish smile. He felt more than a little relief when Robert actually laughed a little.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you stay with her, then? It sounds like you don’t really want to be with her anymore.”

“I…I honestly don’t,” Eames said slowly. “Especially not now that she’s changed so much. She used to be fun. Take risks. Now that she’s got this fancy job, decided to join the corporate dark side—no offense—she thinks that I’m a fucking loser for not doing the same.”

“You have your own business, though!” Robert balked. He drained his drink.

“Yeah, but it’s not the right kind of business. She says I’m old-fashioned. Obsolete.” His temper began to rise, but he didn’t try to quell it. It felt good to talk, to let it all out, even in coded terms. “She’s obsessed with every fucking mistake I’ve ever made. Yeah, I’m the first one to admit I’ve got faults, vices, but that don’t mean I’m not damn good at what I do.” Eames took a long drink.

Robert let out a sigh. “Sometimes you have to make hard decisions when you become an entrepreneur. It can be difficult for other people to understand if they haven’t been there.”

“It’s difficult for her to understand fucking anything,” Eames practically growled. “She and I...we’ve never seen eye-to-eye. We started out in the same place, came up together, but now...now she’s too fucking high and mighty for the likes of me. Says that I’m part of a dying breed, not fucking smart enough to actually make it in the real world!”

Eames’ voice had risen to a near-shout, his fury, his hurt loud and clear for all to hear. The bartender and several of the nearby patrons looked at them warily, and Eames had half a mind to shout at them to mind their own business.

“Hey. It’s OK, Charlie.” Robert’s voice was surprisingly soft and soothing, and it turned Eames’ attention back to him faster than a shout would’ve.  He leveled a finger at Eames, his expression mock-stern. “Listen. I’m about as fucking high and mighty as they come—or, at least, I used to be—and I say you’re plenty smart enough. More than smart enough. It’s her problem if she can’t see it.”

“I…” For once, Eames genuinely didn’t know what to say. Was Robert Fischer actually trying to _comfort_ him? It tugged at something deep and hidden in Eames, a need he didn’t even know he had anymore to be listened to...cared about...

_Careful._

“I think I need some air,” Eames whispered, throat suddenly dry.

Robert nodded and slammed down the last watery dregs of his drink before heading for the door. As Eames followed him, he didn’t miss the look of relief on the bartender’s face, and he felt suddenly ashamed. God, he was drunk, wasn’t he? He was going to have to be really, really fucking careful about what he said around Robert.

The second they were out of the bar, Eames heard a sharp, tell-tale click from beside him. He snapped his head around in time to see Robert sucking a deep, hard drag off a cigarette that had just materialized between his lips. Eames stared in shock.

“You...you smoke?” Nothing in all of his research or observations had given Eames even a hint of this habit. Had Robert picked it up in the three years since?

Robert shrugged and blew out a long stream of smoke. “That a problem, Charlie?”

“Only if you don’t hand one of those fags over right quick.” Eames laughed, an odd relief washing through him. This was the most absolutely normal thing Eames had ever seen Robert Fischer do. Even the cigarette pack he pulled out of his pocket was normal, just good old-fashioned Marlboro Reds, no fancy European imports or designer brands. Eames gratefully pulled one out of the pack and slid it between his lips. He didn’t smoke regularly anymore, but when he’d been drinking he positively craved it.

Rather than handing him the lighter though, Robert flicked the wheel and held the flame up to Eames’ cigarette. On pure impulse, Eames cupped his hands around Robert’s to steady the flame, even though there was nary a breeze to stir the humid air.  He took his sweet time, drawing long on the cigarette, and before he could stop himself, looked up at Robert as he sucked.

Robert was frozen—mesmerized. His cigarette dangled forgotten from his long, graceful fingers, still halfway to his lips, which were parted as if he were panting quietly. It was such a fucking gorgeous sight, and Eames’ entire body flushed hot, and his cock stirred in his cotton briefs.

Then the flame went out, and the spell was broken. Robert practically wrenched his hand away, shoving the lighter back into his pocket as he turned away from Eames.

 _God, what the fuck are you doing, Eames?_ Flirting _with Fischer? You are fucking drunk. Get your head back in the game!_

“I’m sorry,” Eames muttered, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for more—his outburst at the bar, or his absent minded attempt at seduction.

“It’s okay,” Robert said, though he still wasn’t looking at Eames. Then after a moment, he turned to him with a small smile. “It sounds like you have a complicated relationship. If my...partner said those thing to me, I’d be pretty upset as well.”

 _Partner?_ Very interesting choice of words. The suspicion that had been growing in Eames’ mind since that...that _moment_ in the elevator increased. Maybe Fischer had more things that he was hiding from the world than cigarettes and corporate secrets...and Eames realized just how badly he wanted to discover them.

“You have a girl, Robby?” Eames asked, carefully casual. He already knew the answer. He just wanted to see how Fischer would react.

“No,” Robert practically snorted.

“That surprises me, good-looking fella like you. Figured you’ve have more than your pick of the ladies.” Eames led Robert down the street at an ambling pace, pretending to scan the numerous bars and clubs for a promising next location.

“I did, once. When I had money.”

“It’s not all about the money, mate.”

“It is where I come from,” Robert said quietly.

Eames felt a sudden pang for Robert. That must’ve been hard on his pride, too, going from being one the world’s most eligible bachelors to becoming persona non grata.

“With those big baby blues of yours, you’ll nab yourself a nice girl in no time.”

Robert gave Eames a long, hard look as he took a final drag off his smoke. He dropped the butt, deliberately, and stubbed it out. “It’s really not a priority. Never has been.”

God. Eames’ suspicions about Robert were right, weren’t they? He wasn’t just imagining things, he wasn’t just drunk. The long looks, the touches, the concern...Robert really was—

_Oh no. Oh fucking no._

There. At the bar across the street. That...that was Arthur. He was sitting alone at on outdoor table at one of the bars, trying to look like he was interested in the music video playing on the TV screen mounted on the wall. Then his head turned towards Eames, just enough to confirm Eames’ suspicions. Arthur wasn’t out here to enjoy the nightlife. He was tailing them.

A muddle of emotions jumbled through Eames—anger, annoyance, an odd touch of fear. He wasn’t used to being on this side of Arthur, and this, more than anything, cemented what Eames had been afraid of.

 _That wasn’t just a row, Eames. Arthur meant every fucking word. He’s not your friend anymore. There’s no going back to how things were. He’s your_ boss _._

Yeah, well, tonight…fuck bosses.

“Let’s go down here!” Eames yanked Robert by the arm through a crowd of milling tourists and down a side street.

“What’s down here?” Robert asked, confused.

“Dunno. Let’s find out!” Eames quickened his pace, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. When he was sure Robert wasn’t looking, Eames looked back to see if Arthur was indeed following. It was hard to tell through the crowds of tourists milling along the narrow street, the flashing neon lights making everyone look the same. They needed to get off the street.

“Let’s go in here.” Eames pushed Robert towards the club on their left, not really registering the two bikini-clad Thai women flanking the entrance who beckoned for them to come inside.

Robert balked. “In there? I said no strip clubs.”

Frustration rose in Eames. Right now, it didn’t matter what Robert wanted. “Oh come on, Robby! We can’t come to Pattaya without seeing what it’s famous for!” He practically pushed Robert inside.

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light, but when they did, he sucked in his breath at the display before them.

On stage, two long-haired Thai ladies were gyrating in time to the throbbing techno music. The flashing colored lights highlighted the glitter decorating their bare breasts and made their neon green bikini bottoms glow. They smiled at the crowd of Western men sitting at the tables off the stage, but Eames knew a fake smile when he saw one. The oldest con out there.

“Charlie, I don’t…” Robert took a step back against Eames, and he felt just how stiff the muscles in his back had become.

“Can’t tell me you’ve never been to one of these places?” Eames teased half-heartedly. He hated knowing how uncomfortable he was making Robert. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here, either.

Robert’s eyes were steely as he turned to Eames. “I’ve signed contracts using escorts as tables. I’ve closed multi-billion dollar deals in rooms like this.” He looked around, wrinkling his nose. “OK, nothing like this.”

“This is pleasure, not business.” Eames kept time in his head, wondering if Arthur would’ve passed this way yet, if it was safe to duck back out into the street. “Give it a try. You may like it.”

“Fine. If only so you’ll shut up about it.” Robert’s jaw clenched even tighter, but he strode over to a table in the far back.

God, this had slid downhill so quickly. He knew Robert had been avoiding coming to a place like this, and Eames had figured it was his uptight nature, perhaps a little shyness. But now, in light of what Eames was putting together...God. How was Eames going to smooth this over once they left?

The crowd hollered, and Eames looked up to see why. One of the dancers on stage had undone the ties holding her thong on—revealing a slim cock and a perfectly shaved pair of balls.

Now _this_ was Pattaya.

Robert stood up, jaw tight, eyes cold. Without another look at Eames, he strode for the door.

“Hey, hey Robby!” Eames tried to follow him, but was slowed down by the bar girl who’d just appeared to take their mandatory drink order. Before she could involve the bouncers, Eames thrust a couple of folded baht onto her tray, and then followed Robert out of the club.

By the time he got out the door, Robert’s head was barely visible through the crowd. Eames scanned the mob, vigilant for Arthur as well. God, this was a fucking mess. Robert rounded a corner, and Eames hurried to catch up. But once he did, Robert was gone. Eames’ heart sank. How could he disappear so quickly?

_Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe you have lost your game._

A hand grabbed Eames’ bicep and yanked him hard to the side. He tensed even as he stumbled into the painfully narrow alley between two buildings, which was hidden from the crowd by a precariously balanced stack of crates. Eames whirled, fully ready to confront Arthur. It was Robert.

“There’s something you need to understand about me right now, Charlie.” Robert’s eyes were bright, glossy with drink and anger.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Eames said, genuinely meaning it as he raised his hands. “I shouldn’t have pushed you if you weren’t comfortable—”

“I’m gay,” Robert snapped.

Eames’ pulse sped up, his palms tingled. He’d been right. Possibility blossomed in the blink of an eye, rich and exhilarating and terrifying.

“I’ve spent my life pretending not to be for a host of horrible reasons,” Robert continued, “and I know I have to still. But if you genuinely want to be my friend, you have to understand I’m not going to pretend to be straight with you. I’m not going to go to strip clubs with you, and I’m not going to let you buy me a bar girl, even a transvestite bar girl.”

Robert’s posture was commanding, his expression severe. He looked suddenly so much like his old self: sharp, in control, dangerous. Eames’ belly quivered, heat flushing through his body. Now _there_ was the Robert Fischer that Eames remembered, the man who could crumble empires with the stroke of a pen. The man Eames had wanted to bend over a desk, yank towards him by his Armani tie to bite on his pouty lower lip. Robert was even more appealing now, with that cold, commanding strength radiating from him despite his long hair, his casual attire, his bruised jaw. It made him all the more impressive. That deep power was still inside of Robert, and it electrified Eames.

He couldn’t help himself anymore. He threw all his chips on the table and rolled the dice.

“I already have my fucking employees trying to—” Robert’s words died the second Eames slid a hand around the back of Robert’s neck, his wide blue eyes going even wider. His lips parted to let out a surprised little gasp as Eames pulled him against his body. Eames stopped with his face a breath away from Robert’s, giving him the opportunity to recoil if this wasn’t what he truly wanted. Robert didn’t move.

Eames kissed him—hard and sharp and sweet. He kissed him the way he’d wanted to since the first time he’d seen Robert’s picture in the file folder, pulling on every bit of longing he’d carefully buried away.

Robert responded instantly, his lean body yielding against Eames’ as his arms wrapped around his back, pulling him even tighter. He reciprocated the kiss, hungrily, almost desperately, a deep moan rumbling through his throat.

_Double sixes._

Eames tasted their shared night in the kiss—the sweetness of rum and coke, the bitterness of nicotine. It was intoxicating, and Eames wanted more. So very, very much more.

Robert pulled back a bit, enough to mutter against Eames’ lips. “Charlie, what are you doing?”

 _Charlie._ Eames’ stomach knotted deliciously.

“What’s it look like?” Eames tried to chuckle, but it came out hoarse, needy. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you. Your mouth is fucking made to be kissed.”

Robert shuddered against Eames, his cock practically leaping against Eames’ thigh through his thin trousers.  “But...your questions...your strip clubs…”

“I wasn’t sure. I had to know.”

“You could’ve just asked.” Robert’s hands slid over Eames’ back, down his waist, grabbing his ass as he ground his pelvis forward against Eames’. His lips moved down Eames’ jaw, across his throat, and Eames bit back a groan as Robert sucked and nipped at the sensitive skin. God, Robert didn’t waste any time, did he?

“What’s the fun in that?” Eames breathed. His own hands sought any inch of warm flesh they could find—Robert’s face, his neck, his arms, careful of the bruises on his jaw. His vision blurred as his need grew, every kiss and touch fanning the flames. His stiff cock ached for friction, and he hated the layers of clothing that separated him from the promising hardness that Robert ground against him as they kissed.

Before Eames knew what was happening, Robert slid down Eames’ body until he was on his knees. He tugged aside Eames’ loose, garish shirt and began fumbling for the zipper on Eames’ trousers.

“Here?” Eames asked with an incredulous little laugh. He looked around to make sure no one was watching them. God, he never would’ve pegged Robert for the public sex type.

“I’m on vacation. I’m trying something new.” Robert looked up at Eames just as the neon on the sign above them flickered on. It bathed his pale face in electric red, sharpening the angles of his cheeks and turned his normally blue eyes dark. He looked different suddenly, otherworldly—a hungry creature comprised entirely of scarlet light and burning lust. Then the light flickered off and he was just Robert again...just Robby. A fallen prince on his knees in a dirty alleyway in a seedy town. Eames’ chest tightened as an old, cold part of himself dissolved, exposing something raw, surprisingly vulnerable. This...this felt _wrong_.

“No,” Eames rasped. He grabbed Robert under the arms and pulled him up. “No, not like this.”

Robert looked confused, a little hurt. “Charlie, what—”

Eames cut him off with another kiss, this one more tender than the ones before. Even three days ago, Eames would’ve let him suck him off right here and now. Gladly. He would’ve even gotten a thrill out of knowing just how far this meant Robert “born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth” Fischer had sunk. But now, after everything he knew about him, everything they had shared, Eames couldn’t do it. This wasn’t how he wanted Robert.

“You deserve better,” Eames whispered into Robert’s ear. “ _We_ deserve better. I want to get you back to the hotel so I can take my sweet fucking time with you.” He nipped Robert’s earlobe lightly.

Eames could practically feel Robert’s knees turn to water, his entire body quivering. Robert turned his head so he could capture Eames’ lips in another deep kiss, rich with promise and possibility. God, if Robert did _other_ things as well as he kissed, Eames was in for a hell of a night.

“Go get a taxi,” Robert finally panted as he pulled away. “I’m going to need a minute before I can walk.”

Eames smiled wickedly at Robert. “After tonight, you’re gonna need more than a minute to walk again.”


	11. {Robert * Eames} Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No need to get greedy. I want this as bad as you.”_
> 
> **NSFW**

Robert didn’t know how he survived the taxi ride back to the hotel. It had been all he could do to keep his hands off of Charlie, sparing the poor cabbie the show. Robert knew that once he started touching Charlie again, he wouldn’t stop.

As soon as the door to Charlie’s hotel room closed behind them, Charlie pounced on him. They didn’t even make it to the bed. He just grabbed Robert and kissed him hard enough to hurt, but it hurt so fucking good. After so many days, weeks, months of _wanting_ , it was like a dam bursting. God, when was the last time he’d been with someone? He honestly could not remember.

Reason pressed against desire, though, threatening to cool the building heat. This was dangerous. He’d learned the hard way that fulfilling his true desires _always_ came with a cost, usually in the form of high-power favors or incredibly expensive gifts. He’d had to buy the silence of every single one of his male bedmates, and he honestly couldn’t afford the fee these days. There was nothing to stop Charlie from running to the tabloids with secretly taken photos and a juicy story: “Fischer Failure also Flaming Faggot,” or some other alliterative gem.

Robert finished unbuttoning Charlie’s hideous shirt, and Charlie yanked it off the rest of the way, tossing it aside almost violently. Robert sucked in his breath as he drank in what had been revealed—a thick torso, muscular yet not over-built, with just the perfect amount of gingery hair curling across the chest. Those baggy, hideous shirts of Charlie’s really did nothing for him. There were a few old tattoos decorating his broad shoulders, his thick pectorals, words and swirls and even something with cards and dice on his left bicep. Robert’s cock surged to hardness. Tattoos. He’d never been with someone with tattoos before, and that, strangely, was what reassured him.

_Charlie isn’t some horny underling looking for a leg up in the company, or a star-fucker looking for a sugar daddy. This is Charlie…your_ friend _._

Robert was too far gone to care what this was for Charlie—rebound, retaliation, or experiment. It’d been far too long since Robert had had any sort of contact, any real release. For once, tomorrow could take care of itself. Charlie was here now, kissing him like his life depended on it. It was worth the risk.

Robert’s fingers traced over the tattoos, loving how Charlie’s muscles rippled under his questing hands, the little sighs Charlie made whenever Robert found a soft, sensitive spot of skin. As Charlie finally undid Robert’s shirt, he couldn’t help but feel a strange pang of self-consciousness, wishing he’d taken more time away from his work to hit the gym. He’d always been lean, he just used to be stronger, more well-defined.

_Isn’t that just the story of you these days, Robert?_

“You’re so bloody sexy,” Charlie murmured, his tongue licking a long trail down Robert’s throat and down his sternum.

Words eluded Robert as Charlie lapped and nipped his way down Robert’s torso, painting lines down his abdomen as he sank to his knees. Charlie’s hands deftly undid Robert’s belt and the fly of his slacks, peeling them down Robert’s sweaty legs. Robert’s heart did a flip in his chest, anticipation knotting in his stomach as he looked down at Charlie’s gorgeous face, just inches away from his cotton-clad bulge. Robert wanted this so badly his cock _hurt_ , and it twitched eagerly as Charlie came even closer.

Robert almost swooned as Charlie pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against Robert’s hardness, moistening the already damp fabric. He looked up at Robert, his blue-grey eyes crackling with want. A slow, wolfish smile spread across his perfect lips as his thick fingers slid under the band of Robert’s briefs and found his hard cock.

“I…” It was getting harder and harder to think rationally now, with Charlie’s warm fingers wrapped around his shaft, squeezing and stroking lightly. It was driving Robert mad. “God…please…please…”

“Please what?” Charlie purred.

“More,” Robert groaned. He threaded his fingers through Charlie’s sandy hair, feeling the slickness of his hair product. “I want more.”

“Anything for you, Robby,” Charlie said softly. Then, without taking his eyes off Robert, he swallowed his cock down in one long, slow plunge.

Pleasure rippled through Robert’s body, hot and electric. His vision blurred, his entire being centered on the rich, rhythmic sucking. Charlie’s tongue swirled around all the most sensitive spots, while his hands stroked and squeezed and teased. Oh, God, he was so damn _good_ , too good...

“Charlie—I—I—”

Robert barely stuttered out a warning before his orgasm slammed through him. Every muscle in his body seized up, his breath exploding out in a long, raspy cry as he came. Charlie’s fingers dug into Robert’s buttocks, pulling his cock deeper into his hot, sucking mouth, not stopping until he had milked Robert dry. Finally, just when Robert thought he was going to go mad, Charlie’s mouth slid off his spent cock, and twisted into pleased little smirk.

Reason came flooding back to Robert as he sagged forward. He looked down at Charlie’s smugly satisfied face with a mix of awe and concern.

“We didn’t…” Robert’s cheeks flushed. He was suddenly embarrassed at his own lack of responsibility. “…I wasn’t wearing…”

Charlie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and he looked up at Robert with a smile that almost stopped his heart.

“You would’ve said something if you weren’t clean,” Charlie said with a small shrug. “I trust you, Robby.”

_I trust you._ God, when had anyone said that to Robert, ever? He’d spent his entire life being quietly accused of ulterior motives and subtle manipulations, and to be fair, the accusations were well-grounded. He’d been born and bred for corporate deception, and it couldn’t help but extend to his personal life. Relationships were always just another power struggle, another game to master.

Not with Charlie, though. Charlie, who Robert had met only a two days before, who was just a little nobody from a nothing corner of the world. He was the first one to ever say he trusted Robert…and really mean it.

“I wasn’t wrong, was I?” Charlie looked worried suddenly.

“No!” Robert gasped, coming back to himself. “No, you’re right. I’m OK. Last tests were clean, and there’s...there’s been no one since.”

Charlie held up a hand. Robert took it and pulled Charlie up. He suspected the gesture was more ceremonial than necessary by the strength he felt in the pull, which made Robert stagger in his weakened state. Charlie wrapped an arm around Robert’s waist, steadying him easily.

“Well, then. Guess we have some lost time to make up for.” Charlie leaned in for a kiss. Robert kissed him back, intoxicated by the taste of his own come on Charlie’s tongue, the raw, intimate flavor. Charlie pressed his bulge against Robert’s bare hip, and even through the layers of fabric Robert could tell it had hardened significantly since he’d last felt it. “Now, why don’t you lay your gorgeous self down on the bed?”

Robert complied in a daze. He watched as Charlie unbuttoned his slacks and pulled down the zipper slowly, deliberately. He shimmied out of his pants, a move that would have looked comical on a lesser man, but on gorgeously built Charlie it was as tantalizing as the dance of the seven veils.  He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down. His cock finally sprang into view, every bit as gloriously thick and long as Robert had hoped it was. Robert’s body thrummed anew, his pulse hammering, his mouth watering.

Charlie climbed up on the bed with the languor of a jungle cat, covering Robert’s body with his own. His weight, his heat, his smell—deep and musky—felt so incredibly solid, so real, that Robert gave out a helpless little moan. He pulled Charlie’s head down for a kiss, and Charlie dropped his hips to press the length of his cock into the crease of Robert’s thigh. Robert arched up, craving more contact, wanting to feel every inch of Charlie against him. He rocked his hips against Robert’s, sawing against his skin, and Robert spread his legs to let Charlie slide between them. Before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed Charlie’s muscular ass, pulling his hips down hard. Robert wanted more. So very, very much more. If he only had this one night, this one chance to be with Charlie…

“Fuck me.”

Charlie broke the kiss, his eyes wide in surprise. He looked at Robert, really studying him. “You sure, love?”

_Love_. No one, ever, had called him that. Something about the word melted a cold place inside of Robert, strengthening his resolve.

“Yes.” Robert held his gaze. He wanted this. Badly.

Charlie smiled, though his eyes remained tender. “Say please. So I know you really mean it.”

Robert’s cock twitched hopefully against Charlie. “Please.”

Charlie rolled off of Robert, and reached into the drawer in his bedside table. He pulled out a long strip of condoms and an unopened bottle of lubricant.  He crawled over to Robert, draping himself over him from the side so he could kiss him again. His hard cock poked into Robert’s buttock, and Robert’s stomach tightened in anticipation as he heard the crinkle of the cellophane coming off the bottle, the snap of the cap opening. Then, he felt Charlie’s fingers sliding along the crack of his ass.

Robert’s breath caught and then exploded in a shuddering sigh as Charlie’s fingertip slipped across the tight pucker of his entrance. Charlie teased his hole with slippery fingers, first just rubbing the outside, making Robert’s nerves crackle. His cock was hardening more and more by the second, in time with the soft strokes. He squirmed back, trying to press one of those fingers inside of him.

“Oh, you want more, do you?” Charlie crooned. “You know what you have to say.”

“Please,” Robert gasped. He reached back and grabbed Charlie’s wrist, trying to pull his hand closer.

Charlie’s thick finger pressed in. Robert’s cock surged to hardness, and his head arched back until it hit Charlie’s shoulder. He was practically delirious as Charlie opened him up, first with one finger, then with two. God, it was exquisite, discomfort quickly melting into pleasure as Charlie rubbed just the right spots along Robert’s sensitive flesh. He pressed himself back, drawing Charlie deeper into his body, his entire being aching for more more _more_ —

“Please!” Robert cried out.

Charlie pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Robert’s neck, sucking hard. “Please what?”

“Please fuck me!”

Charlie’s hips went completely still, a low, animalistic groan vibrating in his throat. For a moment, Robert was sure he was about to come like this, pressed against his ass, but Charlie managed to ride the wave somehow. He pulled his fingers out of Robert, and Robert immediately, keenly felt their loss.

“Roll over onto your back, Robby. I want to see that gorgeous face when I slide inside.”

Robert bit his lip, his entire body quaking hot with anticipation. He did as he was asked, watching with near-delirium as Charlie prepped his hard cock with condom and lube. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. In 48 hours this man had gone from stranger to acquaintance to friend to lover. This was so unwise, so reckless on so many levels, and it went against everything he’d been taught, ever been—

_You are your own man._

As Charlie climbed on top of him again, Robert grabbed at him with both hands, pulling him down by the ass. He wanted Charlie inside, _now now now_ before something happened to stop this, before he woke up, before Charlie changed his mind.

“Whoa, whoa! Careful, I don’t want to hurt—”

“Don’t care. Just fuck me.”

Rather than comply, though, Charlie stopped moving completely. He looked at Robert, really looked at him, and Robert almost couldn’t bear the sudden tenderness in his blue-grey eyes.

“M’not going anywhere, love.” Charlie sounded…different. There was no joking, no teasing in his tone. “No need to get greedy. I want this as bad as you.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Robert said quietly. Even here, even now, it was obvious he didn’t know how to be, what to say.

Charlie leaned down and kissed Robert slowly and deeply, palming Robert’s cheek with his big hand. It slowed his frantic heartbeat, centered him in the moment.

“I want this more than you can know, Robert.”

Robert’s heart stopped for one terrifyingly glorious moment, the enormity of what Charlie was saying rocking him to the core.

“Then have me,” Robert whispered.

“With pleasure.”

********

God, it was everything Eames could do not to confess in that moment.

_I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw your picture in a file folder, looking so sharp, so severe in your fine suit. It only got worse the more I saw you in person—all the days I sat in your office, invisible in plain sight. I feel like I’ve been wanting you half my life, Robert, knowing full well I could never have you._

_And now here you are._

Eames slid into Robert with a careful thrust, moaning as his cock was slowly enveloped in tight heat. Robert’s lips parted in a silent cry, his entire body seizing up as Eames breached him.

“Relax, Robby,” Eames soothed. He could hear the tightness in his own voice as he struggled to control his entry, using all his will power not to simply fall on Robert and slam in. It was so hard, especially with the sharp little moans Robert could barely get past his lips, his muscles tightened so invitingly around Eames’ girth, the way he looked up at him with eyes wide and trusting. Once Eames sank in all the way, he stopped, giving Robert’s body time to adjust, kissing Robert’s face and neck.

“So good, so bloody good,” Eames moaned into the curve of Robert’s neck, sucking and nipping at the pale flesh. “God, Robby, you’re so fucking hot.”

“Move,” Robert whispered. “Please, Charlie…”

_Charlie._ Eames’ heart squeezed so tight he thought it would burst.

Eames did as he was asked, setting a slow and steady rhythm. He could barely believe this was happening—that all his want, all his planning, all his deception had finally led to _this_ —to heat and pressure and whimpering moans, to Robert’s dark eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks each time Eames moved a certain way, to feeling Robert’s long fingers digging into his arms, his back, his arse, pulling him down, deeper  into the core of him—

“M’gonna cum,” Eames groaned a warning. “Stroke yourself, Robby! Finish with me!”

Robert didn’t need to be asked twice. His hand shot down between them, to the slick junction where Eames pistoned in and out of him, and then up to his own cock. Robert’s quickening moans were just the push Eames needed to topple over the edge, and he let himself go. He came hard, in a flurry of jagged thrusts and guttural moans. Robert tightened like a noose as he followed Eames off the cliff, and Eames full-on howled as his entire being centered on that constricting friction, on the warm spatter of Robert’s jism on his belly, on his sharp, sweet cry of release.

Eames slipped out before he collapsed on top of Robert, panting and sweating. He knew nothing but the feel of Robert’s chest rising and falling against his, the absolute tranquility radiating through him. Robert’s arms circled around Eames’ shoulders, his face nuzzled against his neck.

_God, I’ll do anything, anything, you want, if you make time stop right now._

“That was…wow.” Robert gave a soft little laugh.

“I’ll say.” Eames pulled himself up enough to see Robert’s face. His breath caught in his throat as he drank in the sheer calm smoothing Robert’s normally tight features. God, he was so fucking gorgeous.

“What?” Robert’s face screwed up in concern again.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Eames shook his head in amazement. “Just enjoying how happy you looked.”

Robert’s face relaxed again, but this time into a more sheepish expression. “You’re looking pretty pleased yourself.”

“I’m fucking over the moon!” Eames kissed Robert one more time—enjoying the slow movements of his kiss-swollen lips—before finally disengaging himself to clean up in the bathroom. He tossed a hand towel through the open door to Robert on the bed. “Never thought I’d get so lucky.”

“You said you came here to get lucky.”

Eames emerged from the bathroom, naked. “That wasn’t luck. That was fucking fate.”

Robert laughed softly, throwing his towel on the ground as he stared up at the ceiling. “This room a smoking room?” he asked.

“Is now,” Eames replied, digging though Robert’s discarded trousers to find the pack and lighter. He pulled two out and lit them at once, the smoke immensely satisfying in that way that only a post-coital fag could be. He handed one to Robert, who took it as he scooted up on the bed. As he smoked, Eames poured them each another finger of whiskey from the almost-empty bottle on the table and brought the glasses back to the bed. He settled in beside Robert, and once they were comfortable, Eames clinked his glass against Robert’s.

“To being our own men,” Eames said quietly.

Robert swallowed hard. For one moment, Eames saw something he’d only seen in Robert’s eyes once before—genuine trust.

Eames had done it.

Something in his chest squeezed hard…and it wasn’t just professional pride. Or happiness. No. There was a note of apprehension under all that—the hard, cold truth of why Robert trusted him.

_It’s not_ you  _he trusts. He trust a lie._

He pushed aside his dread as he settled himself against the headboard and opened up his arm to Robert, inviting him to nestle at his side. Robert didn’t hesitate at all in joining Eames, molding his lean, naked form against him. Eames’s heart squeezed as Robert looked up at him with those bright blue eyes, and Eames couldn’t help but kiss him again, taste the whiskey on his full lips. That…that wasn’t a lie.

“You planned all this, didn’t you?” Robert asked.

Eames’ heart stopped.

“You’ve been trying to seduce me this whole time, and I’ve been too preoccupied to notice,” Robert finished with a laugh.

Eames began to breathe again. _This is what it’s going to be like with him now, Eames. Always wondering if he’s figured out the con, seen through your lies. You’ll never be able to let your guard down with him, ever…even if you want to._

“You’ve got me, chief.” Eames smiled, and pressed a kiss to Robert’s sweaty forehead. “I’m a regular bloody Casanova.”

“James Bond, Casanova…who aren’t you, Charlie?”

Eames couldn’t answer around the lump in his throat.


	12. {Eames * Arthur} Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eames. You son of a fucking bitch._

A gentle knocking pulled Eames from his deep, dreamless sleep. God, he wished it hadn’t. His head throbbed and his mouth felt like it was filled with rank cotton. He shifted, and every muscle in his body trembled. Oh God, was he hungover.

The knock returned, a little more insistently. Beside Eames, Robert shifted and groaned. He sounded about as miserable as Eames felt. However, Eames couldn’t help the little leap of amazed pleasure when he opened his eyes to see Robert’s face just a few feet away from his.

God, what a night.

 _Knock knock._ “Mr. Ray?” _Knock knock._

“No service!” Eames shouted, and instantly regretted it when it made his head throb even harder. He swore he’d remembered the do no disturb sign.

“This isn’t housekeeping. This is management.”

Eames’ eyes snapped open, his body tensing. Management? Had there been a noise complaint last night? Or maybe someone had smelled the cigarette smoke. No. This…this was suspicious.

“One minute,” Eames called out. He sat up on the bed, adrenaline keeping him from feeling the full effects of his misery. He found his pants in the jumble of discarded clothes on the floor and pulled them on hastily, then draped his tropical shirt on, not bothering to button it up.

“What is it?” Robert asked, also trying to sit up. He looked wasted—pale, puffy, rumpled and drawn.

Fucking gorgeous.

“Management,” Eames said quietly, remembering to inflect his voice in his Manchester cadence.

Robert’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he looked at the clock at the nightstand. “At ten in the morning?”

Ten?  Eames’s stomach knotted. He knew what this was about.  Arthur knew that Robert was here with Eames, even if he didn’t know exactly what had happened the night before. Robert’s credit card had been cut, remember? Of course Charlie was going to take him in.

The con was back on.

Eames felt like he was going to be sick.

Robert was pulling on his own clothes hastily, a vaguely panicked look on his face as he kicked the bottle of lube under the bed. “Should I go hide in the bathroom?”

Eames just stared at him for a moment, trying to process the request through his jellified brain. “Hide in the…no! Fuck ‘em, Robert.” He didn’t look convinced, though, so Eames gave him a reassuring smile. “Would it make you feel better if I told them we’d had a wild night with some bar girls last night?”

“Not really,” Robert sighed. “Just see what they want so they’ll go away.”

_I know what they want._

Eames nodded, swallowing hard. All right. Showtime.

“Yeah?” Eames growled as he yanked the door open just enough to peer his head through, blocking the rest of the room with his body. Standing on the other side of the door was a short, middle-aged Thai man in an immaculately kept hotel uniform.  The gold badge on his chest said Surat Kongsangchai, Manager. Eames wondered if he even really worked here, if Arthur had paid for another outside “party guest,” or if he’d just bribed an actual hotel employee.

“My deep apologies for bothering you so early,” the man said with an unwavering smile, and gave Eames a _wai_. “But I was told that you were seen with Mr. Fischer last night.”

“Yeah? So? He’s a mate of mine.” Eames leaned on the door and fixed the man with a hard stare. “He made a bit of a scene, but he didn’t hurt anyone. So piss off. I’m paid up through tomorrow, and he can stay here if he likes.”

“Oh! Oh no! I’m not here to eject him! I’m here to find him to apologize! We made a grave mistake yesterday, and the problem with his credit card has been cleared.”

“What?” Robert called from behind Eames. He stepped up to the doorway, his shame forgotten in light of his surprise. “My card was fine?”

“On behalf of the entire Hwan Fan Resort, we want to extend our humblest apologies for any inconvenience and distress our error caused you.” The manager _wai_ ed to Robert, bowing deeply at the waist.

“Yeah, lovely, great. Have a good morning.” Eames tried to shut the door in the man’s face, end the exchange before it was too—

“That’s it? Just an apology?” Robert snapped, and he practically yanked Eames out of the doorway to face the manager himself.

Too late.

“Your staff’s ineptitude and incompetence is inexcusable!” Robert hissed. “And this…you waking me up to bother me just to say that you’re sorry—”

“And to offer you two nights’ stay free, all-inclusive,” the manager sputtered. He handed over a thick white envelope. “King Rama suite, complimentary dinner at our Michelin-starred restaurant, and a two-hour massage with our most in-demand masseuse.” He flicked a look at Eames. “For you and a guest.”

Robert stared at the envelope, and Eames could see he was torn. There was that old part of him—the proud part of him—who wanted to throw this man’s peace offering back in his face just to show him who he was dealing with. The newer him, however, wanted to jump at the chance to taste the luxuries he’d lost—for absolutely free.

“He doesn’t need your sorry excuse for an apology.” Eames was speaking before he could stop himself. He knew he should be encouraging Robert to take the bait. But something in him was breaking. He couldn’t...not yet…

“Make it three nights, and add in an open tab at both bars,” Robert said with quiet steel in his voice. Even hungover, the man still knew how to negotiate.

“Of course, sir,” the manager said with obvious relief. That, more than anything, told Eames that he was a fake. Any hotel manager would balk at the idea of an open bar tab, even for such a prestigious client. It was just an invitation to trouble.

Robert took the envelope and opened it. His eyes immediately snapped back to the manager. “This says the massage is at 11 a.m.”

“I…I’m so sorry, but she was booked for the rest of your stay. It was the only opening left, and—”

“Always a catch, isn’t there?” Robert sighed in exasperation. He waved his hand at the manager, a king dismissing a peon. “Fine. Have breakfast delivered here in the next fifteen minutes then. Bacon, eggs, toast, coffee.” He looked at Eames expectantly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “For you?”

“Same, thanks,” Eames muttered, a flutter of humor rising over the unease. This was certainly going to cost Arthur a pretty penny. Served him right.

“Of course. Thank you for giving us a second cha—”

The manager’s words were cut off as Robert shut the door in his face. Only then did he turn to Eames and laugh. “Can you fucking believe this?”

“No, not really,” Eames said. “Never seen any hotel do anything like that.”

“Me neither, but then again, I’ve never had a hotel turn down my credit card before.” Robert was practically glowing, drunk on his little taste of power. “You know what this means? We’re set for the rest of this trip!”

Two things hit Eames at once. One, the absolute thrill that without question, Robert had just invited him to spend the rest of his holiday with him. Two…the gut-twisting realization that within an hour, Eames would be instrumental in performing the extraction that would ensure that Robert never, ever got to regain the life he had lost.

No.

He couldn’t do it.

Eames stepped up to Robert, and gently took the envelope from his hand. “You don’t need their bribes, Robert.”

Robert balked. “Bribes?”

“They’re trying to buy your silence,” Eames said quietly. “They know they fucked up royally, and fortune or no, your name still holds a lot of sway. They know you could destroy them. So, they’re trying to buy their way back into your good graces.”

“And it’s working.” Robert gave an incredulous little laugh. “Come on, Charlie. This is our ticket to having the sort of weekend that I could’ve bought us before.”

“Or…we could do something completely new.” Eames palmed Robert’s cheek, enjoying the rasp of stubble against his palm. When he spoke, he pitched his voice low and gravelly. “I don’t know about you, but right now the last thing I want is to have to play nice at a Michelin-starred restaurant.”

“Oh? What do you want, then?” Robert was trying to be playful, but the slight quaver edging his words told Eames that his tone, his touch, was having the desired effect.

“You all to myself, somewhere no one can hear us while we fuck like animals.”

Robert’s breathing sped up, and he bit his bottom lip.

“This place has been nothing but trouble for you. I say we get the hell out of here and have a real adventure, just you and me.”

Surprise flickered across Robert’s face. “An adventure?”

“Yep. No more posh resorts, no more seedy nightclubs, no more crowds of fucking ex-pats and backpackers. Let’s go somewhere _real_ , somewhere off the grid.”

_Somewhere Arthur can’t find us._

“Fuck their fake luxuries. Let’s go find our own.” Eames leaned close, and whispered, “Be our own men.”

It worked like magic. Robert practically rocked back on his heels, and when he swayed back forward he caught Eames’ face in his hands, and pressed a sharp, sweet kiss to his lips.

“All right,” Robert said as he pulled away, smiling. “We’ll go do something new.” He thought for a second. “I have to say, though, that massage really sounds nice about now. Can we do that first?”

Eames’ stomach knotted. How was he going to play this one off? “You want a massage? I’ll give you one right now.” He grabbed Robert’s hand and pulled him towards the shower. “I may not have trained at a fancy school, but I think I know what’ll relax you, take care of that hangover.”

He glanced at the clock. It was ten past ten. That gave Eames less than an hour to get Robert off, both of them cleaned up, packed, and as far away from this hotel as they could before Arthur realized what was happening. Knowing Arthur, he’d be suspicious within five minutes past eleven.

It was going to be fucking close.

*****

Arthur waited until 11:10 in the masseuses’ prep room before he fully realized that Eames and Robert weren’t coming. Five minutes late he’d accept. But it was now ten, and Eames hadn’t responded to the question-mark text message that Arthur had sent.

Something had gone wrong.

Eames. Goddamn Eames. _This_ was why Arthur hated working with him sometimes. He was a creature of impulse and even with a set schedule, a carefully crafted plan, if he saw a better hand he’d play it.

_Don’t get too nervous yet. Maybe Robert just wasn’t in the mood for a massage._

_Yeah, because what person turns down a free fucking massage?_

Arthur left the resort’s spa without another word to the masseuse waiting in her room. He’d paid her for the full time, so she wasn’t losing anything. She’d probably enjoy the hour off, anyway. He went straight to the front desk, suspicion growing. He knew that Winai, the well-spoken bartender he’d met out in the clubs last night, had delivered the package, played his part. This wasn’t a problem on Arthur’s end. It was on Eames’.

“Excuse me, could you please call room 427?” Arthur smiled charmingly at the attendant behind the desk. “I’ve been waiting for my friend for brunch, and I think he might have slept in.”

“One moment, please.” The clerk smiled and picked up the phone. Her smile fell with each passing ring. “I’m sorry, sir, no one is picking up.”

Suspicion became dread. Late was one thing…

_Always looking for a better hand, huh?_

Arthur took the elevator to the fourth floor, trying to control the fear growing from the knot in his belly. He wasn’t planning on knocking on Eames’ door to confront him. In fact, he had no idea what he was planning. He just knew he had to get closer, see if he could gather some information.

His heart sank as soon as he rounded the corner on the hallway that Eames’ room was on. The housekeeping cart was set up in front of door 427. Arthur swore, startling the maid who had just stepped back into the hall with a bundle of dirty sheets and towels.

“Sorry, sorry,” Arthur apologized. He took a gamble. “I—I forgot something in the room. Can I check?”

She seemed to understand his gesture more than his words, and she moved aside without hesitation. Arthur tipped his head to her as he stepped past her into the room.

The first thing that hit him was the smell of cigarette smoke. When had Eames taken up smoking again? Damn it, this wasn’t a smoking room, either. This was going to come out of Arthur’s tab. As were those barely touched room service trays, those empty mini-bar bottles. Arthur’s temper rose. Had Eames really just been using Arthur to live it up on his dime?

He touched the coffee carafe on the room service tray. It was still hot. The food was half-eaten, as if hastily wolfed down. There was a pair of folded socks left behind in the corner of one of the drawers, but nothing more.  

Arthur’s toe hit something, sending a bottle rolling across the floor. He squinted at it. It didn’t really look like any bottle of liquor he’d seen befor—fuck. It wasn’t liquor. It was lube.

First, incredulousness. _With Robert? No. He’s straight. All the sources and research have confirmed that._ Next, questioning. _Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a private side. He hid his extraction defense training, too, remember?_ Then, acceptance. _Yeah. There’s the condom wrapper. Eames and Robert fucked._ Finally, anger.  _Eames. You son of a fucking bitch._

It wasn’t the fucking that bothered Arthur. Seduction was a time-honored con, and Eames had used it to his advantage on several occasions. But standing in the middle of this abandoned little love-nest, the pieces all fell into place.

They’d run. Together, by the look of it. No signs of violence. Which meant Eames was still in Robert’s confidence, which most likely meant Eames was still holding onto his role.

Arthur’s teeth ground together as he thought. Why would Eames do this? He wasn’t fucking sentimental enough to actually fall for his mark, was he? No. Eames was a professional. A born con man. This...this was Eames getting back at Arthur, wasn’t it? After that goddamn argument. His way of showing Arthur that Eames was still in control of this con, this game...by removing Fischer from the playing field.

Fuck. There were other dream-tech companies out there—bigger ones—who would pay dearly for the knowledge in Fischer’s head. Or maybe Eames was just planning a full 180 and was going to help Robert finish his work…at the price of his own security. _“Keep me out of it, and you can take down one of your competitors…and the people who fucked with your brain in the first place.”_

God. Fucking. Dammit.

No matter which way Arthur looked at this, it all came down to one thing: Eames had stolen Somnus Shield out from under Arthur. After Arthur had wasted five days of his time and tens of thousands of dollars to make this operation happen. He’d even paid for the goddamn “apology package” from the resort so Robert wouldn’t suspect something had happened in the massage parlor.

Arthur stormed out of the hotel room, bristling with fury. He had too much riding on this operation to just walk away. He needed Fischer’s secrets, his technology, to get the leg-up he needed to boost Yume into the top five…and prove to Saito that his investment hadn’t been in vain. Not only that, he had to show Eames who he was fucking dealing with now. No one, but no one fucked with him. Not anymore.


	13. {Robert * Eames} Hideaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’ll put a man’s sweaty cock in your mouth, but you won’t eat perfectly good meat that’s been cooked over a fire?”_
> 
> **NSFW**

Robert leaned on the railing of the bungalow’s balcony, the humid jungle breeze doing nothing to cool him as he smoked his third cigarette of the day.  The air smelled different here than in Pattaya, more raw somehow, and he watched as it buffeted the fronds of the nearby coconut trees on the edge of the forest.

When Charlie had said he was looking for adventure, he’d certainly meant it.  After they’d checked out of the hotel, they’d chartered a car to take them away from the bay, deeper into the jungle, towards the promise of remote lodgings that Charlie had found on Robert’s smartphone. The ride had been downright terrifying, all those winding roads taken at break-neck speeds. Robert had been sure they were going to careen off and collide into the trees—where they’d die a slow, lonely death on that empty road—and he had wondered over and over why he’d let Charlie talk him into this madness.

_ Because it’s something unlike anything you’ve ever done before—stealing away from your responsibilities, your fears, your life, with a drop-dead gorgeous man who you seem to be forging a genuine connection with.  _

This…this was a world Robert had never seen in his life—so lush and green and quiet. Sure, there was the chirp of birds, the whir of bugs, and the occasional sputter of a scooter engine. But otherwise they were alone, having rented the small, private bungalow furthest from the rest of the cabins. It certainly ached for modern amenities—no air con, no fridge, no mini-bar, no coffee pot. Just a bed wreathed in mosquito netting, a bench for their bags, and a ceiling fan. The bathroom was even sparser, not even a tub, just a detachable shower head hanging over a drain. Robert supposed he should be grateful it had a Western toilet, and not a squat. He still wasn’t used to those.

Robert stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray and wandered back into the room, which was marginally cooler, the fan only stirring the humid air. He automatically picked up his smart phone off the table before remembering that there was no signal here at the bungalow. Not only was there no wi-fi, but he didn’t even get phone reception. That, more than anything, reminded him of just how far off the map he was, cut off completely from the outside world. 

Boredom and concern began to gnaw at Robert, and he wondered if he should have joined Charlie on his quest for food and supplies instead of staying back to nurse the headache that had mostly faded. 

_ Maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe he lured you out here to the middle of the jungle where you have no money, no friends, a slight grasp on the language— _

Robert shook his head to banish the dark thought. No. Charlie had had plenty of times to betray Robert. Against his better judgement, Robert believed that Charlie was genuine.

He wandered over to his suitcase and opened it, digging through his hastily piled clothes until his fingers brushed across the smooth, cool surface of his personal-size PASIV. He should check it, make sure it hadn’t been damaged during the bumpy trip. He put it on the table and opened it, feeling the familiar stirrings of apprehension twined with excitement. He’d relaxed a bit, slept naturally even. Surely he was OK to hook up, maybe give his project another go—

He heard footsteps coming up the bungalow stairs, and quickly slammed the lid shut and scrambled to shove it back into his suitcase. He wasn’t ready yet to let Charlie know he actually had a PASIV with him. It might scare him. He’d taken the gun in stride, but who knew how he’d react to knowing that Robert had the means to sneak into his head while he was sleeping? No. He wanted Charlie to trust him. He’d have to tell him, slowly. But not now.  

The lock on the door turned with a snap, and Charlie stepped into the room with a brown paper bag in the crook of one arm and a couple of plastic bags dangling from the other.  The smell of roast meat and spices filled the room, making Robert’s mouth water. Good. He must be getting over his hangover.

“Right, so, I wasn’t able to find you a steak, per say, but I got us some roasted beef skewers.”

Robert arched an eyebrow as he helped Charlie unpack the boxes at the room’s only table. “Did you get it at a restaurant, or at one of those food carts?”

“If I tell you the truth, you won’t eat.”

“I don’t want to get food poisoning,” Robert said curtly, putting aside the bag.

“You’ll put a man’s sweaty cock in your mouth, but you won’t eat perfectly good meat that’s been cooked over a fire?”

Robert’s face flushed hot, though he couldn’t hold back the laugh that exploded from him. “That’s different! You don’t have salmonella!”

“How do you know?” Charlie threw his hat on the table, revealing the hair underneath, dark with sweat. He grabbed Robert’s ass with both hands, pulling him roughly against him. “I could be crawling with germs.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.” Robert kissed Charlie, tasting the tang of his sweat on his full lips. It was so novel, this…this freedom to touch, to kiss, to flirt. He’d never experienced anything like it, and it made him feel lightheaded, almost drunk. This was definitely better than a night in a Michelin-starred restaurant. 

When he pulled away, Charlie licked his bottom lip, and gave Robert a mischievous grin. 

Robert’s heart fluttered. “If I get sick from this, you’re going to have to deal with getting me back to Bangkok, and not on a bus,” he muttered.

“Fine, fine,” Charlie mock-sighed. He unpacked the paper bag, pulling out a six-pack of beer, a bottle of Mekong whiskey, three tall bottles of water, and eight packages of cigarettes. He obviously wasn’t planning on going anywhere for a while. That suited Robert just fine. 

********

Eames watched Robert eat, trying not to laugh. Robert was so openly torn between his hunger and his caution, and he nibbled delicately at the beef skewer as if it were a fancy canapé. Eames, for his part, simply tucked in, his system—and palate—long used to the nuances of third-world cuisine. 

As he ate, he thought. He’d gotten them away from the hotel, and out of range of communication. He’d even dumped the phone he’d gotten for this job in the rubbish back at the hotel. Arthur couldn’t call him, or trace him with the GPS, and definitely wouldn’t think to look for them in a place like this. But what would Arthur think of? He knew that they’d have to surface again sometime, that Robert would need to return to Bangkok. Would he be waiting for them there?

_ That’s not your biggest question, is it, Eames? _

No. His biggest question was why he’d backed out on the job. Never, ever, in his life, had Eames quit on a contract. This whole fucking scenario had been his bloody idea. His meal ticket, as it were…and he’d just kissed it goodbye.

_ That wasn’t the only thing you kissed. _

No. It couldn’t be that stupid, that simple. This…this was mercy, pure and simple. He’d gotten to know Robert, and Arthur’s original observation was correct: losing everything would destroy Robert utterly. Eames couldn’t do that to him. Robert was...different now. Genuinely trying to make something for himself—

_ By exposing you, Arthur, and every other extractor in the world. _

What the fuck was Eames going to do now? 

Robert looked up at him with a quizzical look. “You OK? You’re never quiet for this long.”

“Just tired from the trip,” Eames said with little smile. “Four-hour car ride, hungover, in this heat will wear a man out, especially one that almost gets you killed!”

Robert’s face darkened. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into that.”

“Come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that a little? All those waterfalls, being in the middle of the wild fucking jungle…”

“I did not enjoy it. Not even a little.” Robert fixed Eames with a cold look. “I don’t find near-death car rides with shady characters fun. I half expected the driver to just mug us and dump us in the jungle.”

_ Near-death…shady characters…mug… _

Oh God. He hadn’t even thought about that.

“I’m sorry, Robert. If I had known how hard it would be for you, I would’ve asked the driver to slow down.” Eames reached across the table and gripped Robert’s hand. It remained stiff for a full second before finally relaxing into his hold. 

“I’ll forgive you if you promise we’ll make them drive more slowly on the way back to Bangkok.” Robert tried a half-smile, and the hesitant hope on his face made Eames’ heart flip…before it plunged into his stomach.

_ Back to Bangkok.  _

“I think I can find a way or two to get you to forgive me.” Eames wiggled his eyebrows at Robert. He deliberately put the end of the meat skewers in his mouth and closed his lips over it, holding eye contact with Robert before pulling the morsel into his mouth to chew.

Robert looked away quickly, but Eames didn’t miss how his cheeks flushed or his breath quickened. Good. It was going to be easy to keep him distracted for a few days. It would give Eames a chance to figure out his next move…and actually, maybe, just enjoy being with Robert. 

God, when was the last time he’d ever been able to just enjoy being with someone?

The rest of the afternoon passed in a deliciously slow blur, like a leaf floating on a warm current. They ate, they talked, they drank beer and played cards. It was too damn hot to do anything else, and though Eames was tempted to suggest they find the resort’s shared pool, he was loathe to break their little cocoon of solitude, especially as night began to fall and Robert’s glances became longer and hungrier.

Eventually, when Eames got up to grab another couple of beers from the cooler on the bench, Robert simply grabbed him by the belt and pulled him over. Eames laughed in surprise when Robert impatiently began unbuckling Eames’ belt.

“Done with playing snap, love?” Eames chuckled.

“Very,” Robert said with mock-seriousness. “There’s something I need to fix.”

“What’s that?”

Robert undid the zipper on Eames’ chinos, and wrenched the fabric open to reveal his white briefs underneath. “When you said that I’d put a man’s sweaty cock in my mouth, it just reminded me I haven’t actually had a chance to suck yours yet.” He pulled down the underwear, revealing Eames’ dick. It gave a hopeful twitch. 

Before Eames could say anything else, Robert wrapped his fingers around the base of Eames’ cock and guided the semi-hard shaft into his waiting mouth. Eames groaned as Robert sucked him down to the base in one easy gulp. He teased Eames’ flesh to hardness, his tongue stroking the underside of Eames’ cock as he drew him in with deep, rhythmic pulls. 

“God, where’d you learn—” Eames’ words cut off in a groan as Robert’s tongue did an amazing little  _ thing  _ that had Eames seeing stars. 

“Boarding school,” Robert stopped sucking just long enough to answer before diving back down for more. 

The thought sent a jolt through Eames, hotter and harder than he would’ve expected, imagining Robert as a teenager in a neat little blazer and shorts. He threaded his fingers through Robert’s long hair, holding on more than guiding, letting Robert glut himself on Eames’ flesh.

Eames was considering pulling out, guiding Robert towards the bed, when Robert looked up from his work.

“You clean?” Robert asked, licking a long line down the side of Eames’ cock. 

Eames’ knees turned to jelly at the tantalizing sight—an image straight out of his deepest longings—and it took all his strength not to just come right there. “Yeah,” he whispered, grateful he’d gotten his most recent tests done in Tangier.

Robert smiled wickedly, and then, after a few more teasing tongue strokes, really set to work on Eames’ cock. Eames could do little more than hold on and whimper, thrusting himself into the wet, sucking cavern of Robert’s sweet mouth as the pressure built and built and built—

It broke in hot, shuddering waves, with Eames howling Robert’s name as he bucked and writhed and emptied himself shamelessly into Robert’s merciless mouth. Robert knew exactly how to play him, stroking just so, sucking just right, bringing Eames to the razor’s edge of sanity before Eames finally pulled away, unable to take any more. 

“Oh. My. God,” Eames groaned in amazement. He looked down at Robert, at his absolutely smug little smirk as he licked his lips, and his lungs squeezed so tightly he could barely breathe. “You’re a fucking wild man!”

Robert smiled, bright and real and heartwarmingly beautiful. Eames helped him to his feet, feeling himself rock unsteadily as he pulled Robert up. Robert steadied him in turn, and Eames palmed his cheek, feeling the heat, the sweat on that smooth curve. Robert kissed him languidly, and Eames relished the lingering salty-bitter taste of himself on Robert’s tongue.

“Been wanting to do  _ that  _ since I saw you,” Robert admitted, and the touch of shyness was so fucking endearing that Eames could do nothing more than pull him closer, bury his face in the crook of Robert’s neck, and pretend that truly, the first time Robert had seen him had been in the resort bar…

…and not sitting in his dying father’s office three years before.

 


	14. {Robert * Eames} Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I want to build a dream with you, Charlie.”_
> 
> **NSFW**

Robert couldn’t remember ever feeling so good in his life. They slept. They ate. They fucked. They talked. And then they did it all again. In those quiet in-between moments, Robert asked all the first date questions he’d never asked before, unraveling the mystery that was Charlie.

“Favorite song.”

“‘Paint it Black.’”

“Favorite book.”

“At the moment, or of all time?”

“Of all time.”

“Um... _The Spy Who Came in From the Cold_.”

“Huh. I liked _The Russia House_ better, myself.”

It went on like that. Favorite movie. Most memorable meal. First fight. First kiss.

They had more in common than he’d thought. True, they’d grown up in worlds so different they could’ve been on separate planets, but there were similar threads: Cold, demanding fathers. Loving mothers gone too soon. No siblings, or siblings so different in age they might as well have been only children raised years apart. A feeling of never quite belonging. Sexual initiation with a much older man.

They didn’t leave the bungalow, only venturing as far as the front porch to smoke and  enjoy the jungle view before retreating back inside to the marginally cooler room. In less than 48 hours, Charlie had done what no one else had been able to do—get Robert to unwind completely.

“I don’t know who I fucking am anymore.” Robert chuckled, staring up at the ceiling fan from the rumpled bed. Beside him, Charlie stirred from his post-coital daze, rolling closer to Robert to press his sticky, sex-scented skin against Robert’s side.

“Right now, you’re my Robby,” Charlie murmured, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

Robert’s heart squeezed so tight it almost burst. He’d never been anyone’s before. Truth be told, the thought would’ve disgusted him only a few days before. He was his own man. He didn’t belong to anyone. But right now, being Charlie’s…

He turned to look at Charlie—the earnestness in his eyes, the rumpled mess of his sandy brown hair, the soft smile on his lips.

“Your mouth,” Robert blurted out.

“What ‘bout my mouth?” Charlie muttered in confused amusement.

“Your mouth is fucking perfect.” Robert looked up and down Charlie’s toned, tattooed body. “All of you is.”

Charlie squirmed a bit in embarrassment. “Nobody’s perfect, love.”

Robert rolled closer. “I’m serious. Look at you. You’re like someone out of a dream.”

Charlie looked down quickly, obviously embarrassed by Robert’s gushing. Good. Let him be the one to squirm this time.

"All I’m trying to say is, you’re fucking gorgeous, Charlie.”

Charlie looked up without moving his head, a strangely vulnerable expression that made Robert’s chest ache. No one had ever looked at Robert like that before, this strange mix of humor and vulnerability and gratitude.

He wondered suddenly if this…this was what falling in love was like.

The thought wasn’t as terrifying as he had imagined it would be.

“I want to do something with you,” Robert said slowly. His heart jumped nervously as he sat up. It was time.

“Oh?” Charlie propped himself up on one elbow and chuckled. “You might need to give me a bit, love. That last round took a lot out of me.”

“Not sex. Something else.” Robert slid off the bed and pulled on his briefs, anxiousness knotting in his belly. This could go so badly. Things were going so well…why was he doing this?

_Because you want to share_ all _of yourself with Charlie, while you still have the chance._

Robert went to his suitcase and slowly pulled out the PASIV. He turned to Charlie, carefully gauging his reaction. He seemed curious, but unafraid, and it only strengthened Robert’s resolve.

“This is a PASIV device. It’s what I use to work in my dreams.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I have a much bigger, custom one at Pinwheel’s labs in Bangkok, but this is my personal one.”

“Looks a bit like the ones they use at the somnivids in London,” Charlie said, his tone even. That was a good sign.

“It doesn’t make you nervous to know I’ve had one all this time?” Robert asked.

Charlie looked at him, and though his eyes were clear there was a hint of nervousness there. “Should I be?”

Robert swallowed hard. “Remember, I told you there’s people out there who make their livings by sneaking into people’s dreams, stealing their ideas…spying on them.” He looked up at Charlie. “I need you to believe that I didn’t. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

Charlie looked away suddenly, surprising Robert. He sat up fully, and Robert saw his back rise and fall as he took a few deep, steadying breaths.

“Hey, Charlie, are you OK?” He placed a hand on Charlie’s muscled back, already regretting the decision to share this with Charlie. It was obviously too much, too soon, even after everything else they’d shared.

“I…I believe you, Robby,” Charlie finally whispered. He cleared his throat, and when he turned to look at Robert his eyes were clear, but…guarded. “I just don’t know why you’re showing this to me now.”

Robert looked down at the PASIV. “This machine has become my life,” he said slowly. “I’ve spent what amounts to years hooked up to it, dreaming the same dream over and over in the hope that I can finally break through a wall, discover what was never meant to be known.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t dream anymore, Charlie. Not naturally. I’ve done this too much, too fast. I can barely remember what it’s like to have a new dream, one that’s…that’s good. One that’s like this.” He looked up, and made himself meet Charlie’s eyes. “I want to build a dream with you, Charlie.”

Charlie blinked, swallowed hard. “What’s wrong with our reality, love? I’d say we’re living a dream right now.”

“And this dream will end,” Robert whispered. There, finally, the dark, hard truth that had been niggling him from the pit of his heart blossomed, sharp-edged and enormous, and Robert had to struggle to speak around it. “We leave tomorrow. I go back to Bangkok, to Pinwheel, and you go back to Manchester…to your business, to your…” _Priscilla._ Robert swallowed hard. Open relationship or no, she was still Charlie’s girlfriend. Robert was the vacation fling…and vacation was almost over.

“I want to build something to remember you by,” Robert continued. “A dream I can have when I need to relax, to be happy. I could build it myself, after I return, but...if we did it together…” God, why were his eyes so tight, so hot? Why was his throat closing up?

Charlie’s strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him against his broad chest. Robert closed his eyes and breathed in his scent, memorizing it, like every other little detail about Charlie. He simply held him for what seemed like forever, and Robert let him, knowing full well this might be the last time he had a moment like this—

“You don’t need a dream, Robert.” Charlie finally spoke, and when he did, his words were resolute. “Because this isn’t going to end.”

Robert pulled back. “Charlie, are you—”

“I think I’m in love with you, Robert.”

Robert’s world _stopped_. No breath, no blood, nothing but the disorientation of free-fall.  This had to be a dream. It had to. Nothing this good, this real, ever fell in Robert’s lap. Everything he’d ever wanted—deeply, truly wanted—he’d either had to deny or fight tooth and nail for.

“Are you serious?” Robert whispered.

“As the grave.” Charlie’s voice was different—severe, without an ounce of humor. “And the more I get to know you, the more time we spend together, I’m sure of it. It explains so much about…about things…things I’ve done the past few days. You’re…you’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Robby. You’re brilliant, you’re driven, and you’re a survivor.”

“Survivor,” Robert snorted derisively. “The only things I survived were a pampered childhood and twenty years of corporate warfare.”

“You survived a neglectful, spiteful father. You survived the loss of your mother. You survived the ending of your father’s empire. You survived having people fucking with your head. And now you’re surviving the hardest thing possible—being absolutely alone in the world.”

Robert couldn’t breathe. His eyes stung. His heart felt like it was on fire, practically ready to burst.

Charlie licked his lips nervously. “I know…I know what it’s like to be alone like that. No family, no real friends. I know what it’s like to feel like you can’t trust anyone, always watching your back, jumping at shadows. It’s such a hard way for a man to live…and I’m bloody sick of it. You and me…we make a good team, Robby. I’ve seen you…I _know_ you. And I don’t think I can bear to leave you again.”

Robert’s breath finally exploded out of him. He rubbed his mouth with his hand, processing the information.

“What…what are you proposing?” Robert said, so softly that he could barely hear himself.

“I propose we run away together. For good. Just you and me. I sell the textile business, the house, the Audi, everything, and we find some remote island somewhere and live like kings. Together.”

“What about Priscilla?”

“Over,” Charlie said without hesitation. “Things mostly are anyway.”

God, it was such a deliriously intoxicating idea. Maybe it was the heady rush of vacation dreaming. Maybe it was the mind-blowing sex. Or maybe it was the absolutely perfect man in front of him, baring his heart and soul to Robert.

A thought rose up like a dark shape in the sea of his hope.

“What about Pinwheel?” Robert said slowly. “I would have to abandon my business.”

Charlie went absolutely still. “You would.”

Robert looked up, thinking. He watched the fan on the ceiling, spinning the sticky air around the room. He’d been struggling for two years, pouring all his money, all his time, all his hopes on this one fragile idea. He hadn’t come any closer to cracking the problem in months, and really, each day that he didn’t was just more and more proof that he might never. He was so desperate to make his own mark on the world…really, wasn’t he just trying to live up to his father’s expectations of him? Create his own empire? Hadn’t Robert decided that he wasn’t going to live for his father’s memory but that he was going to…

Be his own man?

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes.” He looked at Charlie. “If giving up Pinwheel means that I get to spend every day like this with you, I’ll do it. I can sell off what I have, and we can pool the money. Live like kings on some not-so-remote island.”

Charlie looked just as elated and terrified as Robert felt. “You serious? I know how much that business means to you, Robby.”

“Not as much as you mean to me, Charlie. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, too.” Robert grabbed the back of Charlie’s head, and pulled him towards him for a deep kiss, tasting the sweetness of possibility on Charlie’s perfect lips.

********

It was quiet in the jungle at two in the morning. Every once in a while, Eames could hear the chirp and drone of the night insects over the whisper of the wind through the palm fronds, but that was it. Still, he couldn’t sleep. He watched Robert sleep instead, curled up and snoring lightly under the thin sheets. He looked peaceful, almost blissful. Well, why shouldn’t he be?

_“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, too.”_

Robert loved him. He loved Robert. In the moment, it had been as simple and beautiful as that—two people deciding they wanted to be together, build a life together. But as soon as Robert had fallen asleep, the dream had collapsed around Eames, and he’d awoken alone in the cold, hard reality of his life.

Robert loved the dream of Charlie that Eames had created. True, there was much of Charlie that was truly, deeply Eames, but that wasn’t even the biggest problem. No, the biggest problem was that Eames had been lying to Robert since the moment he’d met him—and there was no way Eames could tell him without destroying the fragile trust he’d earned.

_Trust you earned so you could get his secrets, destroy his dream business. You’ve done that anyway, haven’t you? Mission fucking accomplished, Eames. Your identity is safe._

Eames wrenched his gaze off of Robert’s sleeping face, feeling suddenly sick. He took a deep, steadying breath. It wasn’t as if he was stealing Robert’s ideas anymore. He’d even turned down the dream-share. Tomorrow, they would go back to Bangkok together, and Eames would help Robert start to put his affairs in order. He could live as Charlie. It wouldn’t be that hard, really. It was the only answer. A life-long secret in exchange for a happily ever after that included both Robert Fischer and not spending the rest of his life in prison.

As long as Arthur didn’t find them first.

Eames swallowed hard.

He honestly felt a bit bad for Arthur, dangling this dream-tech carrot in front of his nose and then snatching it away. Maybe…maybe Eames could square things with Arthur by convincing Robert to sell Pinwheel to Yume. Yeah. That…that might work.

_Or Arthur might just put a bullet in your head._

Eames shuddered. It was best just to steer clear of Arthur right now.

Eames scooted down further on the bed, determined to try to get some sleep. Robert immediately gravitated towards him, spooning him from behind, even in the heat. Eames pressed back against him, enjoying the solid warmth of his body. God, had Eames ever trusted anyone enough to share his bed, his space…his _life_?

Robert’s cock gave a twitch against Eames’ buttock, killing the deep thoughts and replacing them with dirty ones. Eames smiled as he felt the shaft pulse again, and then again, hardening as Robert slept. Must be a good dream. Maybe Eames could make it even better. He rocked his hips back slightly, rubbing his arse against the growing erection. It surged against him hopefully, and Robert gave a sleepy little moan. Eames kept moving until Robert’s cock was fully hard and his breath was coming hot and ragged.

Eames shifted slightly, encouraging Robert’s cock to slip into the crevice of Eames’ arse. Robert groaned softly, sawing himself unconsciously against the swell of Eames’s buttocks, not quite between them, but enough to send warm ripples of want through Eames. His own cock had swollen to half-mast, and he stroked it idly, simply enjoying the languid pleasure. He was in no rush.

They writhed against each other for what seemed like forever, until Eames felt Robert’s hand slide over his chest, brushing over his nipples lightly before searching for Eames’ cock.

“Finally awake, love?” Eames murmured over his shoulder.

Robert propped himself up on an elbow so he could plant a kiss on Eames’s shoulder. “Been awake for a while. Just couldn’t bear to hold still anymore.”

Eames smiled as Robert pressed himself harder against him, his cock finally sliding in between his buttocks. Eames moaned as the tip nudged briefly against the sensitive skin of his opening, and he felt a hunger growing for something he hadn’t had for so very long…

“Fuck me, Robby,” he groaned. “Wanna feel you inside me this time.”

Robert’s cock practically leapt at Eames’s request, though Robert slowed his movement. For a moment, Eames thought Robert might refuse, say he was a strict bottom or something of the like.

“Hand me the lube and condoms, Charlie,” Robert said, and Eames didn’t miss the slight tremor of excitement in his words. He was certainly awake now.

Eames groped along the bedside table until he came to the half-used bottle and considerably shorter strip of rubbers. He handed them back to Robert, but as he heard the crinkle of tearing plastic a wild, crazy thought took command of his reason.

“No condom,” Eames breathed. “I want to feel you, Robby.”

Robert moaned softly, and then sank his teeth into Eames’s shoulder. His whole body shuddered with want against Eames, and Eames rocked back against him to encourage him further. He heard the snap of the bottle opening, and within a few moments Robert was sliding a generous amount of lubricant along the crack of Eames’s arse, and then swirling his fingers around the tight hole. Eames groaned and writhed, pushing back to encourage Robert to slide his fingers inside. Robert only teased the outside though, massaging and stretching, and Eames heard himself making small, whimpering sounds he’d never made before.

“How long’s it been, Charlie?” Robert’s voice was hoarse, needy. He finally slipped not one, but two fingers in, and Eames cried out, the sensation as much relief as pleasure. “How long’s it been since anyone’s been inside of you?”

“I…I...” Eames couldn’t think, couldn’t craft a convincing lie to hide the truth: _not since London, the project, the start of all this madness._ All he wanted to think of was the perfect pressure of Robert’s long fingers inside of him, stroking and twisting and brushing against that—that—that—spot!

“Right there, hmmm?” Robert crooned against Eames’ ear, and Eames could practically feel his cheshire grin against his cheek. “Right there...that’s where you want my bare cock?”

God, they’d talked dirty before, but Robert’s growl, more command than question, made Eames’ entire body clench in need. That was the voice that he’d fantasized about—Robert’s stern, steely tone, now wrapped in heat, in tenderness, searing into Eames’ brain...

“Yes!” Eames gasped, pushing back against Robert’s hand. “God, yes…”

“Then you know what you have to say.”

Eames’ mind went completely blank, a dull sort of panic filling the void. God, what, what did Robert want? An admission of undying love? To be called Daddy?

_A confession?_

“Say, ‘please,’” Robert prompted, his voice low and teasing. Relief flowed through Eames a split-second before a wave of blinding sensations rocked through him, as Robert’s fingers pressed promisingly against Eames’ most sensitive spot.

“God, please, fuck me, Robby!” Eames was begging. Fucking begging. Shamelessly. What the hell had Robert done to him?

Eames didn’t care. He kept begging even as Robert’s fingers slid out, the emptiness inside him soothed only by the promise of the hard cock finally nudging against his tight opening. Nothing mattered now but the feeling of Robert teasing himself into Eames one shallow thrust at a time, letting Eames’s body open slowly, hunger for it, beg for it—

Eames pressed his hips back sharply just as Robert rocked forward. Both men cried out as the head of Robert’s cock pressed past the loosened ring of muscle, breaching Eames’ body at last. Eames felt molten, feverish, spread impossibly wide, almost to the point of breaking, and as the discomfort began to flirt on the edge of pain he wondered if he had gone too far, too fast—

“Easy, Charlie,” Robert murmured into his ear. He took his hand from Eames’ hip and covered Eames’ with it, guiding it down to Eames’ cock. “Stroke yourself. It helps.”

With Robert’s hand covering his, Eames began moving his hand over his cock. Even without lube, the stroking was enough to anchor him, a familiar pleasure hard-wired into his brain. Soon, Eames felt himself rocking back, taking even more of Robert’s cock inside of him. This time, the friction was exquisite.

“There we go,” Robert crooned. “That’s my boy. My Charlie.”

“Charles!” Eames gasped, delirious through the rich sensations.

“Charles.” Robert chuckled, and pressed a hot, nipping kiss to the side of Eames’ throat. “My Charles.”

They rocked and strained and groaned together, locked in exquisite pleasure. Eames couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so open, so wanton, and he wriggled and moaned like a creature possessed. Robert somehow managed to keep the rhythm steady and slow, until Eames was practically sobbing for him to go faster, harder, pound him—

Robert rolled Eames onto his stomach, covering his body completely. “You ready to come, then, Charles?”

“God yes! Yes! Make me, make me co—” Eames’ words died with a strangled cry as Robert slammed into him, his bare cock moving like an oiled piston into Eames’ body. Eames clutched the sheets with his free hand, buried his face into the pillow and screamed as he stroked himself furiously. He came harder than he ever had in his life, his jism spurting over his fingers to soak into the bedsheets, his entire body quaking with tremors. Robert was only a few seconds behind, pumping and howling and clawing at Eames’ back as he came.

The storm passed slowly, with long, slow shudders and moans dying into whimpers. Finally, Robert sagged against Eames’ back, branding a trail of soft kisses along his shoulder as he pulled out. Eames managed to pull his hand out from under himself without moving, and simply lay there, enjoying the weight of Robert above him, the slow trickle of fluids that marked the deep intimacy they’d just shared.

“I love you, Charles,” Robert murmured against Eames’ ear.

It was all Eames could do not to cry in that moment. He was so raw, so open…

“No one’s called me Charles in years,” Eames whispered hoarsely, the truth bubbling up from the freshly cracked part of his heart. “Not since…not since my mother died. It’s always been Charlie. Or…” _Or Eames. Or something else._

Robert stroked Eames’ cheek with the tip of his finger. “I’ll call you whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

Eames rolled over, and before he lost himself in a wave of emotion he crushed Robert against his chest, holding him as tightly as he dared. There was no way he was letting this precious man go, not ever again.

_God, I wish, I wish I could tell you the truth, all of the truth. Even if I can’t…I’ll make it right for you, Robert. I promise. I’ll become the man you think I am, the man you deserve._

_For you, I’ll become Charlie._


	15. {Robert * Eames} The Kick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now. If not…things are going to get very ugly for you..."_

The car ride back to Bangkok was quiet, and much slower, as Charlie had promised. Charlie dozed against the cracked plastic upholstery of the back seat, but Robert’s head was spinning in too many directions at once to rest.

Despite his mental turmoil, he felt calm. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like he had purpose, a direction…and that direction was sitting beside him. 

Robert studied Charlie’s sleeping profile, framed against the window, the scenery of the tropical landscape rushing past. Even sleeping he was still moving, his facial muscles twitching in his sleep. Robert smiled to himself. Must be dreaming. 

However, the closer they got to Bangkok, the more cold reason pressed up against the bliss that had surrounded him since the night before.

_ You’re being a fucking moron, Robert. You’re throwing away millions of dollars, years of research, just to go squat in the jungle like some bum ex-pat with a man you just met a few days ago? You were brought up for better than that. You’re wasting everything. _

Robert knew the voice well. It was his father’s voice, raspy and thick with disappointment. He fought back against it, using the ammunition he had just gained. Charlie wasn’t just a stranger now. He was his lover. The first…the first real _ partner _ Robert had ever had. An equal. A friend. 

Was he worth giving up everything for? Absolutely.

Robert’s phone chirped to life in his pocket, vibrating frantically. He’d finally gotten so used to its silence that its sudden return to life surprised him. They must be back in reception range then. He pulled the smartphone out of his pocket and swiped it on. His heart leapt in his throat as he saw 43 missed calls, 75 text messages, and 137 emails waiting for him. It only took a glance at the first text message to make Robert navigate hurriedly to Lillian’s contact, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Lillian—” 

“Oh my god, Mr. Fischer, I’m so glad you’re all right!” she sounded on the verge of tears. “Where have you been? The resort said you checked out two days ago! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Guilt gnawed at his stomach. “Decided on a change of scenery, and I didn’t realize I wouldn’t have reception until I got—” 

“We have a potential investor!” she blurted, interrupting Robert. “He’s been trying to get a meeting with you since yesterday!”

Robert’s stomach knotted, adrenaline surging through his system. “An investor? Who?”

“He won’t say much, just that he’s representing a new company that specializes in dream-tech. Yume, I think.”

Robert’s heart leapt. Yume was one of the fastest-growing dream-tech firms in the business. Excitement surged through him at the thought that perhaps, finally, he could convince someone of his ideas, show them what he’d poured so much of himself into developing—

Charlie’s hand brushed against Robert’s arm, pulling his attention back to the here and now. Charlie was awake, curiosity creasing his brow. Robert’s chest tightened. God…why couldn’t he have gotten this call a week ago? 

“Mr. Fischer…” Lillian’s voice rose over the phone, “Mr. Fischer, are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Robert said. “Is Dr. Sharp back from her trip?”

“Back in the office yesterday.” The sound on the other end of the line muffled, and Robert thought he could hear Dr. Sharp’s voice dimly before Lilian returned. “She says she’s a little jetlagged, but it won’t affect her dream-share capabilities. We can do this, Mr. Fischer!” 

He closed his eyes, thinking. It couldn’t hurt to meet with the potential investor, right? Maybe…maybe if things worked out…maybe Charlie wouldn’t mind living in Bangkok. Or maybe they’d be interested in buying Robert’s tech outright. There were too many factors to consider on too little information. He needed to know more. 

“Set up a meeting for six o’clock tonight. I’ll be at the lab by 5:40 p.m.” Robert looked at his watch. That should give him just enough time to get to Bangkok, clean up, and get Charlie settled in his apartment before heading over. “It’s late, but it’s the soonest I can be there.”

“Great. I’ll call you if there’s a problem.” Lillian sounded excited. She should be—the right investor would save Pinwheel, and her job. 

Robert swallowed hard as he hung up the phone. Mercifully, Charlie gave him a moment to compose himself before speaking.

“A potential investor, eh?” Robert could hear how Charlie was trying to sound cheerful, but it only made the nervousness in his words worse.

“I’m sorry,” Robert said quietly. “I…I have to meet with them tonight.”

“No, no, I understand. Pinwheel’s your life. You’ve got to do all you can to save it.” Charlie looked out the window, not saying what Robert knew he wanted to say— _ so much for our plan, eh? Dream’s just a dream. _

Robert reached over the length of the car seat and tentatively took Charlie’s hand. “I need to know. Maybe…maybe they’ll be interested in buying outright.”

“You’re still serious, aren’t you? About what we talked about last night?” Charlie turned and met Robert’s eyes with a strange sort of nervous hope. It was a bit unlike him, after all the assurance he’d always shown, and that, more than anything, told Robert of just how deeply Charlie had opened up to him.  

Robert took a deep breath. “I’m serious about wanting to be with you, Charles. If the only way I can do that is to sell everything I’ve been working on for two years and go live in the jungle with you, I’ll do it. But if there’s a chance that I can make this business work, if I can contract this out to private corporations, militaries, governments, I’ll be making real money again—and I can show you what it’s like to really live like a king.”

That look. What was that look Charlie was giving him, this odd mix between disgust and nervousness?

“Robby, love, I understand that you grew up accustomed to…to a certain way of life.” Charlie was picking his words carefully. “I know how hard that must’ve been to give up, to try to forge your own path. But, you can’t spend your life trying to climb back into that gilded cage.”

“I’m not trying to get back into a cage.” Robert’s annoyance was growing. Couldn’t Charlie understand what this opportunity could mean? He was a businessman himself. “I’m trying to see if I can actually fucking pioneer a new type of technology—”

“No. This isn’t about the tech. This is about the money—”

“This is about finding the assholes who fucked with my head!” Robert yelled, the truth bursting out of him like an erupting volcano. The cab fell silent, and even the driver—who’d done a fine job pretending he didn’t exist—watched Robert nervously in his flower-wreathed rear-view mirror. Robert didn’t care. He pressed on. “This is about finally having a chance to stop people who think they can—can just  _ violate  _ people’s minds and get away with it!”

Charlie had gone as pale and still as a corpse. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking for all the world like he was trying not to be sick. Why would this bother Charlie so much? 

“If someone had come into your head while you were sleeping, stolen your ideas…wouldn’t you want to find them? Bring them to justice?” Robert asked softly. “I can. I can do it, I know I can.”

“Stop the car,” Charlie whispered from behind his hand. His pale complexion had taken on a green tone.

“What?” Robert’s focus shifted instantly from anger to concern. “Are you all right?”

“Stop the car!” Charlie pounded on the back of the driver’s seat. The driver looked at Charlie through his mirror and instantly complied. The car swerved off the road and onto the dirt shoulder, and Charlie didn’t even wait for the cab to stop completely before he threw himself out. Robert could hear him retching beside the cab, and he slid across the seat to exit the cab on the same side. 

“What happened?” Robert asked, crouching down beside him. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m bloody well not all right,” Charlie groaned. “Feel like my stomach’s trying to crawl out through my mouth.”

Robert grimaced at the nauseating imagery, looking around helplessly. God, they were in the middle of nowhere, still two hours out of Bangkok. He was suddenly grateful he hadn’t given into Charlie’s goading to try the sausage at the roadside vendor the driver had stopped at an hour before, especially when Charlie began retching anew. 

Robert ducked into the cab to talk to the driver. “How close to the nearest hospital?”

The cab driver shrugged, and Robert cursed out loud, pulling out his smartphone to find a hospital to take Charlie.

“I don’t need a hospital.” Charlie stood up warily, balancing himself on the side of the cab. “Just, just need some alka-seltzer and a lie-down.”

Robert—and the cab driver—eyed Charlie warily. “You think you can make it to Bangkok?” Robert asked. 

Charlie slumped into the seat, avoiding Robert’s eyes. “Have to now, don’t I?”

Robert nodded slowly as he joined Charlie in the cab, his mind whirling at the change in priorities. He had to get Charlie back to his apartment in Bangkok, and quickly.

The investor would just have to wait.

*******

Eames felt wretched down to the core of his being—which made feigning the illness even easier.

To be fair, the vomiting had been real, his guilt literally making him ill. But when he’d looked up at Robert, seen the shift from manic focus to concern for his friend, Eames had known what con he had to play to keep him from the meeting. It was the very first con he’d learned as a child: playing sick. 

He felt like a huge asshole, he truly did—especially as Robert stroked his back as Eames rested his head on the seat in front of him—but Eames hadn’t known what else to do. He had watched Robby transform into Robert Fischer right before his eyes, that one phone call undoing the days of good Eames had done in relaxing him…and in convincing him to abandon his project.

_ Did you really think a couple of days of sex and booze could undo the damage you’ve done to him, Eames? That he’d just let go of the hurt, the destruction you wrought on his life?  _

Eames swallowed hard, wishing he had something to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth. He hated playing Robert again after he’d been able to be genuine with him—even if he not purely honest.

_ You’ll never be able to be honest with him. You’ll always have to lie, no matter how much you love him. _

They arrived at Robert’s Bangkok apartment sooner than Eames had expected, even with the mid-afternoon traffic jam. Eames made sure to pay the taxi driver extra for his trouble. As the driver pocketed the cash, he looked more than a little relieved to have Eames and his unlucky stomach out of his cab. 

Eames let Robert guide him to the elevator in the lobby. The apartment building was surprisingly modest, though clean and new, and there was still a valet to help with the bags. They rode to the 20 th floor, still five shy of the penthouse. Knowing Robert, that must be something that quietly bothered him.

Robert’s condominium had a similar air. True, it was spacious, and the picture window that made up the back wall had a sprawling view of Bangkok that must be breathtaking at night, but compared to the old-money luxuries he’d grown up in this was downright pedestrian. It was tastefully—but spartanly—furnished in dark wood and white leather, with only a few pieces of carefully selected art on the wall. Eames noted that there wasn’t a photo in sight—no friends, no family, no treasured destinations. It felt more like a hotel room that someone’s home, clean and empty. 

“Let me get you set up in the guest room, and then I’ll get you that alka-seltzer,” Robert said as he shut the front door behind the departing valet. He picked up Eames’ bag. “I think the room’s been made up.”

“You think?” Eames cocked an eyebrow curiously. “You don’t know what’s going on in your own home?”

Robert looked sheepish. “I don’t ever have company.”

Eames’s heart twisted a little bit as he followed Robert down the short hallway. “Well, now you do. Though I hoped I’d be staying a little closer to you.”

Robert opened a narrow door, revealing an immaculate bedroom done in the same dark wood and white textures. Eames half expected to find a push-button phone and a hotel directory card on the nightstand. 

“I figured you might want to rest in privacy,” Robert said. “I know when I’m sick, I don’t want anyone near me.”

“You just don’t want me throwing up on your bed,” Eames said with a mischievous little smile.

Robert returned it ruefully. “There’s that.” He put Eames’ bag down on the floor, and then, to Eames’ surprise, he pulled him into his arms by the waist. “I promise, as soon as you’re feeling better, you won’t be leaving my bed for days.”

Eames’ heart did a little flip, and he pressed closer to Robert. There was the Robby that Eames had come to love, the playful spirit he’d coaxed out of that hard, cold shell. He met Robert’s gaze, drank in the genuine warmth, the tenderness, and Eames had to keep himself from kissing him. 

“You’re too good, you know that, Robby?” Eames whispered.

Robert barked an incredulous little laugh, then pressed a kiss to Eames’ cheek before sliding away. “If you’d known me three years ago, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

Eames swallowed hard against the reformed knot in his throat.  _ I did know you then. _

“Well, good thing I met you now, then, eh?” he managed. His knees were suddenly weak, and lying down didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. 

“I’ll go get the medicine while you get settled in. Your bathroom’s through that door.” Robert pointed to a closed door that Eames had thought was another closet. 

“Private bathroom, eh? Do I get my own little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, too?” Eames chuckled as he lay down. 

He’d only had his eyes closed for a minute when he heard Robert swear from down the hall. A few seconds later, Robert popped his head into the room. “I’m out of stomach medicine. I’m going to have to go down to the chemist to get some.”

Trepidation squirmed in Eames’ belly. “I’ll be okay, love, you don’t need to do that.”

Robert was already walking away, though, and Eames heard the jingle of his keys from the living room. “There’s one a couple of blocks away on Sukhumvit,” he called out, “it’ll be five minutes.”

“I’ll come with you.” Eames sat up.

Robert was at the doorway before Eames could finish putting his shoes back on. “No, you stay here.”

“Robby, I’m—”  _ No, you’re not, you’re sick, remember? You’re distracting him.  _ Eames groaned, and dropped his shoe. He lay back down. “Yeah, go on. Even sitting up too fast is making my head hurt.”

Robert came over, and pressed a soft kiss to Eames’ forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eames looked up at Robert, amazed at the genuine tenderness in his expression. It made Eames feel even more wretched, and he didn’t have to fake the stomachache for a moment. 

“Just hurry back, yeah?”

*****

Robert dumped about eight different boxes on the pharmacy counter. He hadn’t realized just how many different types of Alka-Seltzer there were until he’d tried to pick one out…so he’d brought one of each up to the counter. Then he’d picked up some other stuff, too, in case that didn’t work. He wanted Charlie better as fast as humanly possible.

The chemist rang him up, and Robert immediately went for his credit card. He froze with it halfway to the chemist’s hand. Fuck. The hotel had said they’d cleared up the problem with Robert’s card, but he hadn’t had a chance to call the company to make sure. For all he knew, they could decline him again, and he didn’t know if he could bear the humiliation, not here, so close to home.  He put the card back in his wallet and counted out his cash. He didn’t have enough.

“Um, you know what, never mind,” Robert said quietly, and with as much dignity as he could muster, he turned and strode out of the pharmacy. His face burned as he hurried away. Great. Now he could never come back to this pharmacy; he’d have to go to the one further down the street. 

It was only when he was another block down that he realized he could’ve just pulled some things out of his basket and paid for them with his cash. Robert cursed. God, his mind was so fucking addled! He was still thinking of the investor, and of Charlie, and god, what fucking rotten timing. He should call Lillian, let her know the change in plans. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Robert, you can’t push back the meeting!” Lillian said, not even hiding how upset she was. “He’s already been waiting for a day!”

“I’m sorry, but—but something came up.” Robert weighed his excuse.  _ ‘I have a sick friend at my apartment’ _ would’ve gotten him laughed out of any office back in the old days. 

_ You’re being soft,  _ a voice in his head snapped. _ You want this company to survive, you want to find the criminals who fucked with your head, you’re going to have to make sacrifices! _

“Just give him a call, see if he’s willing to meet tomorrow,” Robert sighed, and hung up the phone. He was in no mood to argue with her.

He managed to make it to the next pharmacy and pay for his much more modest purchase before his phone rang again.

“He’s leaving Bangkok in two hours.” Her voice quavered in frustration. She was quiet for a long moment. “Robert, it’s now or never.”

Robert’s stomach twisted. He knew she was right.

_ You could just walk away. Cut your losses. Go back home, go to Charlie… _

_ Or you could give it one last shot, see if you can do this, if you still have it in you to build your own empire, change the world… _

_ Be your own man. _

“I haven’t even changed yet,” he whispered. His feet were already changing trajectory, heading towards the Skytrain station up ahead. The lab was only a couple of stops away.

“You still have a suit here,” Lillian said, relief tinging her words.

“I haven’t showered, shaved…”

“Just, just get here, Mr. Fischer, and we’ll take care of you.”

He hung up, feeling more than a little guilty. Charlie was expecting him back at home at any moment. He needed the medicine.

_ You know, he’s probably asleep by now. Then you’ll just sit there, feeling like a right idiot for letting this opportunity slip through your fingers. _

Robert touched his pre-paid card to the station’s turnstile and slid through. Luckily, a westbound train was just arriving, and he raced up the stairs and slid through the doors right before they closed. He breathed heavily, letting the blast of air conditioning cool his burning face. 

He could do this. If he could just clean up, get his head in the game, he was sure he could land this investor. And with even one in place, Robert could get the credibility Pinwheel needed to attract more. And, even if he was going to sell, wouldn’t it be better to sell a finished product than a half-completed formula? Then he’d have even more money to retire early with, to take care of Charlie with…

Charlie would understand. He had to.

********

“Come on, come on…” Eames hissed into the phone, nerves tightening with each passing ring. Thank God Robert was old-fashioned enough to have a landline in his apartment, and Eames was prepared enough to have Arthur’s cell phone number memorized. “Arthur, you fucker, come on—”

The phone clicked on. 

“Who is this?” Arthur snapped.

“It’s me.” Eames tried to keep his voice even, deadpan, despite the nervous tremors in his belly, the sweat coating his palms. 

“You have a lot of fucking nerve calling me aft—”

“I know, I know.” Eames swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore Arthur’s cold fury, to focus instead on what he was trying to say. “I couldn’t finish the job. I’ll find a way to make it square with you.” Eames waited a moment, and then said the hardest thing of all. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur was silent for a hideously long moment. 

“You’re sloppy, Eames,” Arthur hissed. “You let this get personal.”

Heat flashed through Eames. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then shut it. He had no recourse. Arthur was right. 

“If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now. If not…things are going to get very ugly for you, Eames. Consider this your one warning.”

Arthur hung up. Eames felt even worse than if he hadn’t called, hadn’t tried to make amends for botching the job, dragging Arthur into this. 

He took a deep breath, tried to quell the dread growing in his belly. Things between him and Arthur had never been chummy, but they’d never been outright hostile like this. Maybe he’d underestimated just how much Arthur had changed. He was on the other side of the desk, now, the other side of the line. Having Arthur as an enemy was going to be dangerous.

He rubbed his hand over his face. The sooner he got Robert away from all this dream-share stuff, the sooner they just up and left everything behind, the better. Eames looked at his watch. Where was Robby? He had said that the pharmacy was only about ten minutes away. He’d been gone for almost thirty five minutes. 

His dread began to grow. Would Arthur…no…he wouldn’t…would he?

Eames tried to ignore his shaking hands as he called the number Robert had scrawled down on the notepad for him before he’d left. The phone rang once…twice…three times…voicemail. Eames’ stomach knotted. Maybe, maybe Robert had it on silent. He tried again. 

One…two…three…voicemail. 

Eames’ mouth had gone dry. He tried to convince himself that Robert was fine, that he was just being paranoid—

The phone rang in his hand. Relief flooded through him as he saw Robert’s name flashing across the phone’s display window.

“Robby, love, where are you?” Eames asked, slipping back easily into his Manchester cadence. “Starting to think you’re running away without me.”

“Charlie, I…I have to take this meeting,” Robert said quietly, his voice thick with remorse. “I’m really sorry, but I swear, I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ll send a messenger over with the medicine.”

Eames could hear female voices behind Robert, and the sound muffled suddenly. Robert must’ve put his hand over the receiver, but Eames still caught Robert instructing, “bring in the files on test run 37. That was one of our best.”

“Robby,” Eames felt like he was going to retch as the pieces started to fit together. “Can I ask, who’s this big important investor?”

“A private company, Yume.”

Eames couldn’t hear anything else that Robert was saying through the rush of blood in his ears. 

Arthur. Yume. Robert. 

_ “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now. If not…things are going to get very ugly for you, Eames.” _

“Robert, don’t take the meeting.”

“Charlie,” Robert laughed uncomfortably. “It’s OK, I’ll be back in a coup—”

“You can’t trust him! He’s a con-man!” Eames blurted out. 

_ And how would Charlie know that, huh, Eames?  _

Panic was seizing his thoughts, but he forced himself to think, to think. “I mean—I—I think I remember reading somewhere that Yume was being investigated for some, some unscrupulous practices or something…”

_ You  _ are _ getting sloppy, Eames. _

Robert went quiet suddenly, and all Eames could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, fight or flight adrenaline coursing through him.

“Charlie, I have to go.” Robert’s tone was stern, downright icy. “We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

“Robby, Robert, listen to—”

But Robert had hung up. Eames swore loudly, looking around desperately at the empty apartment. What could he do? Arthur was with Robert right now. There was nothing stopping him from telling Robert the truth, the ugly, bitter truth that would destroy everything—including Robert.

Eames took a deep, shuddering breath. Think. He had to think. But the more he thought, the more realization sank in, cold and hard and heartbreaking—there was nothing he could do.

Not from here. 

It only took him a few minutes to find the address for Pinwheel’s labs on a discarded envelope. Then he ran to the luggage piled by the door, praying that he had relaxed Robert enough to…yes. His gun was in his bag.

He swallowed hard as he stuck it into the back band of his pants, pulling his hideous shirt up over it to conceal it. Then, grabbing his jacket, he bolted out of the apartment. 

He’d be damned if he let Arthur hurt Robert. Not again. 


	16. {Arthur * Eames} Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t know who you are or what game you’re playing, but I need you to leave now.”_

“Mr. Fischer, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Arthur stood and extended his hand, smiling easily at Robert as he entered the small meeting room.

“Mr. Anderson, the pleasure is mine.” Robert took his hand and shook it firmly.

Arthur was pleasantly surprised by Robert’s quick transformation. Now this, this was more like the Robert Fischer that Arthur remembered—decked in a suit, his hair trimmed back into a stylish cut, not a trace of stubble on his face. Had Eames cleaned him up in the two days since they’d gone off the radar? Interesting. The only hint of his recent adventure was the bruise on his jaw, now faded to a sickly yellow. Arthur’s gut gave a slight twinge. He ignored it.

“I have to apologize for the delay, I’ve been out of the office for a few days,” Fischer said, and Arthur thought he detected the barest hint of a flush creeping over his cheeks. Or maybe it was just his new tan.

“I’m truly sorry I had to pull you into the office like this, but I was only passing through Bangkok. I have a meeting in Amsterdam tomorrow morning.”  Arthur flipped through the presentation folder that Fischer’s assistant had left with him. “But when I stopped to have lunch with Vicki yesterday, I just had to see the project she’d signed on with.”

“Oh. You know Dr. Sharp?” Surprise, a touch of hurt, the curiosity of why his colleague wouldn’t have mentioned a potential investor before.

“We go way back. We worked together on a grant-funded dream-share study at UCSF. Afterwards, she went into academics, I went into the private sector. I hadn’t realized she’d come to the dark side until I saw her name in an article about Pinwheel. My flight to Holland was delayed, so I decided to look her up on my lay-over yesterday.”

It had been a remarkable stroke of luck when his research had unearthed Victoria’s connection with Robert’s company. They’d never been friends, per say, but Arthur knew how time could turn an old acquaintance into a cherished companion, especially in a foreign country. All it had taken was one phone call, a nice dinner, and here he was, completely vetted for. He’d just made sure to gloss over the truth when they’d gotten to the “So, what have you been up to all these years?” part of the conversation.

“Ah.” Fischer smiled, though Arthur thought he detected a slight hesitation in his manner. Hmm. Robert seemed to shake it off, though, and he took a breath. “Well, then, since you already have experience in dream-share, I can skip the part of the presentation where I explain what it is. What Pinwheel does is take that technology…”

Arthur half-listened as Fischer launched into his presentation. He was passionate, he’d give Fischer that, and it genuinely seemed that he knew his subject matter. It was a bit of a surprise. He’d figured that a man like Fischer would leave the heavy lifting to his scientists.

“So, you’ve been trying this on yourself?” Arthur asked. “You trust the process that much?”

“I do,” Fischer replied, his eyes shining with a strange confidence, “and I truly believe that the team and I are only a few steps away from honing in on the procedure and chemical formula that will make this a viable way to track the evidence of extractions.”

“You can never be too careful these days,” Arthur said, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Sometimes careful isn’t enough. That’s where Somnus Shield comes in.”

Arthur almost smiled. Fischer had probably practiced that one in front of a mirror.

“All right, you’ve got me more than a little curious,” Arthur said. “At Yume we focus mostly on dream therapy, but I believe that there could be some cross-platform potential with Somnus Shield.”

Arthur could see Fischer’s growing excitement, even as he did his best to hide his tells. He was off his game. Arthur could use that to his advantage.

“So. Do I get to see it?” Arthur smiled widely.

Fischer stood up and motioned for Arthur to follow him. Arthur half-listened as Robert told him about the lab and its facilities, his eyes absorbing everything he saw. He had to give the people at Pinwheel credit, everything was neat, professional, and well-hidden. It would be foolish to hope for something as obvious as a big, open file on a desk labeled “Fischer’s secret procedure.”

That was for Arthur to find in Fischer’s head.

When they entered the lab, Arthur gave an impressed whistle. “Now, _that_ is a PASIV.”

The device was bigger and more complex than any that Arthur had ever encountered, either in the private or government sectors. The case was the size of a flat-screen television, with myriad tubes and circuits running to various monitors and keyboards. The Somnacin chamber held twice as many canisters as the usual portable model. In front of the device, three padded dentist’s chairs were set up, waiting for their subjects. It was like something out of a science fiction film.

Robert had his full attention as he explained the basics of the modifications and expansions they’d made to the PASIV. He was careful not to touch on any specifics, but Arthur could read plenty between the lines. Eames’ suspicions had been correct—Fischer did know his stuff, and well. He and his team were indeed coming up with some ideas that Arthur never would’ve thought of on his own. His respect for Fischer grew alongside a strange pang of jealousy.

_Doesn’t matter that you didn’t think of it yourself. One way or another, this tech will be yours, and Yume will soar._

The thought didn’t cheer him. In fact, it made him feel worse. He pushed it down. He was smack dab in the middle of the game. There was no going back now.

“So,” Arthur said, sitting down on one of the three chairs, “do I get to take it for a test drive?” He looked up at Fischer with a smile.

Fischer swallowed hard. He looked around for a moment, as if searching for something.

“If I’m going to considering investing, then I’m going to have to see it for myself,” Arthur explained.

“Of course, of course.” Fischer closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “It’s just, we don’t really have a suitable subject for you to witness—”

“How about you?” Arthur asked softly.

Fischer looked at Arthur sharply, his face going pale.

“It’s okay,” Arthur said quietly, “I’ve been extracted from, too.”

Fischer’s gaze slipped off Arthur, and he struggled to regain his composure.

Arthur took a deep breath and pressed on.“It’s why I’m interested in Pinwheel, to be honest. When Vicki told me what you were working on, I got this feeling. Right here.” He pointed to his gut. “I thought, finally, a chance to pin something on those bastards that messed with my head. If you’re really on to something, I want in.”

Fischer looked up, his eyes bright and feverish. Arthur had obviously said the right thing. He leaned over and pressed a button on the phone on the wall.

“Lillian? I need help prepping the system.”

Arthur smiled.

Everything was going perfectly.

*******

Eames jumped off the back of the motor scooter, throwing a wad of _baht_ at the teenage driver. Motor scooter taxis were the quickest—and most dangerous—way of getting around Bangkok, and his legs were still shaking as he ran up the steps to the building that housed Pinwheel’s labs.

He stepped through the glass doors, and his heart sank. There was a check-in desk with two bored security guards sitting watch. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but every second that kept him away from Robert was another second that Arthur had to break into his mind.

“ _Sa wa de kap_ ,” he greeted the guards, “I’m a guest of Mr. Fischer’s? Pinwheel?” He started to walk by them. “He’s expecting me.”

It wasn’t that easy, though. One of the guards stood, gesturing for Eames to wait as the other one picked up the phone. Eames cursed inwardly, but kept his cool.

“What’s your name?” the one on the phone asked.

Eames considered giving a fake name, one that would get Robert’s attention, until he realized…he didn’t really have to lie. Robert would let him in anywhere. “Charles Ray.”

The guard talked quietly into the phone for a moment, but when he hung up, his face was stern.

“Mr. Fischer in meeting right now. You come back in an hour, please.”

Desperation clawed at Eames. So much for the straight approach. If he tried to bolt for the elevators, then the guards would restrain him, probably call the police, who were the last people Eames wanted involved. No, he’d have to get clever.

“Damn it, they started the interviews without me!” he hissed. He knew this was a gamble—especially in his garish tropical shirt. If he had been wearing a suit, this would be instantly believable. He threw his jacket on, presenting himself to the guards. “God, I’m late, I’m not dressed…I thought my interview was tomorrow, but then I checked my calendar and it’s today!” He gave the guards a miserable look, and pressed his hands at his chest in a _wai_. “Please, I need this job!”

The guards looked at each other, considering for a second. Then, one shrugged, and the other waved Robert through with a bored little nod.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Eames bowed again and scurried past the desk. An elevator was just opening up as he arrived, and he waited for the suited passengers to disembark before he ducked inside. He punched the button for the seventh floor, and took a few deep, steadying breaths. He didn’t know what he was going to do, what he was going to say. All he knew for sure was that he had to stop Arthur from dream-sharing with Robert.

The elevator dinged its arrival, and Eames rushed out, practically jogging down the hallway in search of the Pinwheel office. There! The glass doors ahead!

He wrenched open the doors, panting. There was no one at the front desk, but as he stepped behind the desk, intent on the offices beyond, a tall, black woman in a white lab coat stepped out into the hall.

“What are you doing in here?” she snapped, taking a step back.

“My names is Charles Ray,” Eames panted. “I’m a friend of Robert’s.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m calling security.”

Eames kicked himself. He’d forgotten. Robert didn’t have any friends.

“The man who’s in there with him, he’s a con man. A thief,” Eames blurted out. “He’s here to try to extract the Somnus Shield plans from Robert!”

The woman backpedaled rapidly, her hand reaching for the phone. “I don’t know who you are or what game you’re playing, but I need you to leave now.”

_I’m sorry, Robert._

Eames pulled the gun from the back of his pants. He didn’t point the gun at her, but she froze anyway, eyes locked on the gun.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Eames said carefully. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I just need you to get Robert away from the man he’s in the meeting with before they dream-share.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, fear making her voice thin. She held her hands up slowly, on instinct.  

Frustration boiled up in Eames. “Why not?”

“They’re already hooked up.” She darted a look up at Eames, flinching as if the news would anger him enough to make him lose control.

Eames’ mind whirled. Already hooked up. Which meant…

_It’s over, Eames._

Like hell it was.

“Take me to them.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to let you hurt—”

“I just need you to unhook them,” Eames said, motioning with the gun towards the door. “I swear, I will not hurt anyone.”

“Then why do you still have the gun out?”

“Because if I put it away, you won’t listen to me,” Eames swallowed hard. “Please. I don’t want to Robert hurt, I…” _I’m his friend. I care for him._ “Just take me to the lab.”

The woman walked slowly out the door, keeping her hands up. Eames could barely believe what he was doing. How was he going to explain this to Robert, when he woke up to find Eames holding his employees at gunpoint?

How was Eames going to explain any of this?

The walk to the lab felt like a death march, and when the doctor swiped her card at the door Eames grabbed her arm to keep her from bolting in and locking him out. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away, and led Eames into the lab.

Wow. No wonder Robert had been so reluctant to walk away from all this.

Under normal circumstances, Eames would’ve wanted to marvel at the equipment, drink in every single detail. But not now, not like this. His attention honed in on the two prone bodies lying in the large chairs at the heart of the lab—Robert and Arthur. Eames’ heart clenched.

“Vicki, what…”

Eames’s attention whipped to the side, to the young Thai woman standing beside the bank of keyboards, her eyes wide as she took in the scene before her.

“Everything is going to be all right,” Eames said calmly. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need you to turn off the machine.”

The operator’s gaze darted between Eames’s hostage—Vicki, she’d called her?—and Eames’ gun, her face frozen in terror. Eames felt worse and worse with every passing second.

_Arthur’s right, Eames. You have gotten sloppy. You know there’s a good chance this is all being recorded, too._

“Please, just, turn off the machine,” Eames pleaded. “Robert is in danger. I’m trying to help!”

The machine beeped quietly, three times, then hissed in release. Arthur stirred, and a second later, Robert opened his eyes. His expression was blank, dazed as he looked around the lab to orient himself.

“Robert,” Eames called out. “Are you all right? What did he do to you?”

Robert’s eyes locked on Eames. There was the spark of recognition—

“Your voice,” Robert said hoarsely. His face went as pale as marble, his features slackening in horror. “Your voice...I thought it was a mistake, but—but it _is_ you.”

“My voice?” Confusion rocked through Eames a split second before realization slammed into him. He had forgotten to use his Manchester cadence. Charlie’s accent. He was stressed, scared, so he’d fallen back on the London accent he’d worked so hard to hard-wire into himself.

_No. Not like this. Please, God, don’t let him find out like this._

“You’re Eames.” Robert’s face tightened, his eyes hard and sharp as flint. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Not Charlie, not Charles…Eames!” Robert spat out the word as he wrenched the PASIV needle from his arm.

The floor felt like it was crumbling under Eames’ feet. This had to be a dream, some horrible, car sick dream, and they were still back in the cab on the way to Bangkok—

“Drop the gun, Eames,” Arthur said coolly. Eames turned to look at his former partner. He had a pistol trained on him from his seat. “Let Victoria go.”

Eames weighed his options. The woman was his only collateral, his shield. But the longer he held her, the guiltier he looked—and the more danger he put her in. He let her go, and she immediately scurried over to the other assistant, who wrapped her in her arms.

“The gun,” Arthur repeated. “Empty the clip and drop the gun.”

Eames did as he was ordered, his gaze darting between Robert and Arthur.

“Get out,” Robert told his assistants, quietly. “Call the police and leave the building.”

“Mr. Fischer, what about—”

“I’ll be fine,” Robert snapped, his tone brooking no argument. “Go.”

The women hurried out, giving Eames a wide berth. The door closed behind them, leaving Eames alone with Arthur and Robert.

“Robby, let me exp—”

“Shut. Your. Mouth,” Robert snapped, cutting Eames off.

Eames’ chest tightened further. “Robert, listen to me, please.”

Robert stood up out of his chair, and for the first time, Eames noticed that he was back in a suit, his hair cut, his face shaved. God, when had he had time for that? It was like looking at the old Robert Fischer, the crown prince of his father’s financial empire. His Robert, his Robby, was gone.

“It was you,” Robert breathed. “You’re the one that came into my mind.” His eyes narrowed, and he approached Eames with the slow, deliberate pace of a predator about to pounce. “It’s your face in the taxi…your face in the hotel…your face in mountains…I saw it.”

Eames looked at Arthur. “What did you do?” he whispered.

Despite his advantage, Arthur looked deeply uncomfortable as he held the gun on Eames. “I didn’t do anything.”

“What did you do to him?” Eames shouted.

“Nothing!” Arthur yelled, “I just watched! The Somnus Shield works.”

Eames looked at Robert in amazement. “You…you did it?”

“I did. Victoria was right. I just needed to relax.” He spat the last word out, and it stabbed like a knife in Eames’ gut.

Robert knelt down slowly and picked up the discarded gun and the clip.

Eames eyed him nervously, even as he struggled find the words to say.“Did you see Arthur’s face there too?” Eames asked, throwing Arthur a hard look.

“The only face I saw in there was yours. Clear and _perfect_ in every way.”

_“Your mouth is fucking perfect. All of you is.”_

_“Nobody’s perfect, love.”_

The memory of Robert’s calm, happy face dissolved, replaced by the hard, cold expression before him. Eames was having trouble breathing; his entire body felt waxen. He’d do anything to wake up right now, to have this not be true.

“Arthur, Arthur, tell him,” Eames said desperately. “Tell him it was us. Tell him we were paid to—”

“Enough lies,” Arthur said coolly. “You’re a known con man, Eames. A thief and an extractor. And we’ve caught you.”

Eames couldn’t believe what was happening, that he was being double-crossed like this by Arthur.

_“Things are going to get very ugly for you, Eames.”_

Eames could hear the whine of approaching sirens, and panic knotted in his chest. No…Arthur wouldn’t…

The click of the clip sliding back into the gun drew Eames’ attention back to Robert. He wished it hadn’t. Seeing Robert’s expression, the barely checked rage, the betrayal, the hurt, made Eames want to die.

In fact, it looked like Robert was fully capable of granting that request.

“Robert, put the gun down,” Arthur said quietly. “The police are almost here.”

“I know,” Robert said, though he never took his eyes off Eames. “So I only have a minute to find out what I need to know.” He cocked his head, the gun not quite trained on Eames. “Why did you come back? Was it some sick compulsion? A need to return to the scene of the crime?”

Eames swallowed hard. If things played out the way Eames feared they were going to, this would be his one chance to tell Robert the truth.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

For one moment, Eames saw the flicker of Robby—the hope, the love, the beauty—before it was snuffed out by Robert’s cold rage. Robert’s face twisted, and it was the only warning Eames got before Robert’s fist slammed across his face. Eames tasted blood as the skin on his lip split.

“Hey!” Arthur called, stepping forward, “Robert, stop!”

Eames braced himself for another blow, but Robert was already stepping away, completely unable to look at Eames. He couldn’t see Robert’s face, but in the slump of his shoulders, Eames could read everything he needed to know—Robert had broken.

Eames could hear the assistants beyond the door, talking frantically to the police. A second later they burst through, four uniformed Royal Thai Police officers with their guns drawn.  As they swarmed him, Eames put his hands on his head and was forced down to his knees, feeling as shattered as Robert looked.

After years of gambling, Eames’ luck had finally run out—and he had lost everything.


	17. {Arthur * Robert} Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So. How’s it feel to be on the winning team, Arthur?”_

Almost two months passed before Arthur had the courage to visit Eames in prison. He was being held at Klong Prem in Bangkok until he could be extradited to Britain for his trial. It was a long and messy process under normal circumstances, but Charles “Eames” Raymond was special—the first man to be caught in a mind-crime case. Throw in his impressive list of international warrants, and Eames would probably end up serving a few years in here before the paperwork was sorted out.

Of all the places to get caught…fuck. Arthur didn’t pity him at all, serving time in Thai prison.

_And whose fault is it that he’s in here, huh?_

His fucking own.

The first thing that hit Arthur as he passed the checkpoint was the smell of the prison—the rank sweat of hundreds of men crammed into a small space. It leaked out into the visitation area, despite the thick, plexi-glass windows separating the long room from the rest of the facility. Arthur was escorted to a stool in front of one of those windows, and his stomach lurched as he looked at the man waiting on the other side.

Eames looked gaunt. He wore only a stained tank top, his trousers torn off at the knee into shorts. His stubble had grown out into the beginnings of a scraggly beard. He was bruised, a bloody bandage wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. With his muscled, tattooed arms, his carefully ready posture, and his even, hard expression, he looked like he’d spent the last two years in prison, not two months.

He stared at Arthur through the layers of wire fence, painted bars, and plexi-glass that separated them. Then, slowly, he picked up the phone on his end. Arthur did the same.

_“How are you holding up?”_ Arthur wanted to ask, but he didn’t.  Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I bought you supplies at the prison shop. Food, water, toilet paper. They should be delivered to you in a bit.”

Eames said nothing. His silence stretched on for almost a full minute, and Arthur was considering just turning around and leaving when he asked, “How’s Robert?”

“He sold Pinwheel to me.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Eames’ voice was deadly soft. It made Arthur’s stomach clench.

Arthur looked down. “How do you think he is?”

Eames’ face tightened further, though Arthur didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed in sorrow. “Tell me.”

“What do you want to know, Eames?” Arthur said, exasperated. “I don’t see him much, and when I do, it’s all he can do to stay focused to get through the paperwork. He let his employees go, and he’s packing up to leave Bangkok. He’s not sleeping, I can tell that much…and…” _and he can’t look me in the eye._

Eames rubbed his hand over his mouth. His entire body was tense. “So. You won.”

Arthur tried not to flinch.

“You got your tech, you got rid of your competition, and you’ve got your first confirmed case to set legal precedent with. Congratufuckinglations.”

“I didn’t want it to end like thi—”

“How did you think it was going to end?” Eames snarled. “You planned on destroying Robert all along!”

“And it was your idea!” Arthur snapped. He looked around, trying not to look nervous. Even here—especially here—it was dangerous to admit to his part in all this. He lowered his voice. “You’re the one who came to me, remember? This was _your_ plan. I asked you. I fucking asked you if you could live with yourself, and you said yes.”

“Things change.”

“Yeah, they do.”

“So. How’s it feel to be on the winning team, Arthur? To be one of those slick fuckers we spent years mocking, playing, breaking down one secret at a time. How’s it feel to be the enemy, Arthur?”

“I wasn’t your enemy. I was your boss. And you just couldn’t deal with that.”

“You were never my boss, Arthur,” Eames sneered. “You may like to think you were, but you were my partner. My friend. _That’s_ why I came to you. ’cause you were the last person left that I even remotely trusted.”

“And then you stabbed me in the back,” Arthur said. It was a struggle to keep his voice even, to not betray the sick feeling churning in his belly. “You took my time, my money, and then reneged on the deal—”

“I would’ve made it square, Arthur. You know I would’ve.”

“Really? You square with LeMaire? Or Brasca? Or Trin? You have a record of debt as long as your rap sheet.”

“Not to my friends. To some really bad men.” Eames let out a hard, ugly chuckle. “Guess I know which one you are now.”

Arthur couldn’t hear any more of this. He began putting the receiver down, a strange heat growing behind his eyes.

“Hey!” Eames shouted. “Hey!”

Arthur pulled the phone back up to his ear. He forced himself to look Eames in the face. It was probably the last time he was going to see him again.

“You take care of Robert, okay? You owe me that fucking much.” Eames swallowed hard, and for one moment, Arthur could see the fragility, the pain, seeping through the cracks in his hard mask. “You help him back on his feet somehow, or so help me God, Arthur, I will destroy you. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”

Arthur nodded, and without another word, put down the receiver. He could feel Eames’ eyes boring into him all the way down the long room, until he was out the door. Only then did Arthur allow himself to shake, and he managed to keep his breathing even until he made it back to his car.

God…if this was the price of success, had it been worth it?

*******

It was so quiet in the lab at midnight, the thick walls insulating the sounds of the busy street below. Robert looked out his office window, absently watching the traffic rush down Sukhumvit Road. He’d kind of missed this view. It was the closest he’d ever been to the street before.

He turned back to his desk and flipped through another couple of folders. He selected one for the shred pile, another to save for the Yume team that would be coming in the next day. He was too exhausted to feel any real regret. At this point it was more a sense of desperate relief to be rid of this business, a way out of the black hole he’d found himself at the bottom of. This…this was a dangerous business to be in. Too dangerous. Robert had lost enough.

He sorted through his desk, tossing the few personal artifacts he’d brought with him into a banker’s box. He stopped when he found the gold-trimmed Cross pen his father had given him when he’d graduated from boarding school. He’d signed his first contract at 18 with that pen, and he’d used it when filing the paperwork to create Pinwheel.

Robert threw it in the trash.

It didn’t take much longer to clear out his office, and he went out to the other offices to give them a quick sweep. Victoria had only returned once to clean out her desk after the…the incident, and Robert didn’t blame her one bit. Lillian had stayed on, working late nights to help with the transition. Even tonight, Robert had finally had to insist she go home at 9 p.m. Amazing women, both of them. Robert was going to miss working with them. At least Lillian would stay on with Yume, and Victoria would have her pick of any dream-tech company to work for. Unless she went back to lecturing, like she’d said she might. Universities were safer.

Once he was satisfied that the offices were clean enough, Robert knew there was no reason not to just go home. He still had plenty of packing to do there. Not that he was taking much with him back to Sydney, just a few boxes of clothes, books, and miscellaneous mementos. The Fischer estate would have everything else he needed until he figured out what he was going to do next. The only rooms he had yet to go through were the study and the guest room…

Before the image of Charlie smiling up from the guest bed could fully form in his mind, Robert turned on his heel and marched towards the lab. It wouldn’t hurt to give it another sweep, despite the fact that both he and Lillian had cleared it thoroughly this afternoon. Could never be too careful.

He switched on the light, waiting for the fluorescents to flicker to life before stepping in. He ran his fingers over the quiet banks of computers, the casing for the PASIV he’d helped his first team develop. So many dreams he’d shared with this machine. Or truly, so many times he’d dreamed the same dream.

He swallowed hard. He should feel relief, shouldn’t he? He’d finally gotten what he wanted: the face of his assailant, his capture, his impending trial. All of Robert’s sacrifice, his hard work, everything had paid off. True, it was only one face out of three, but it was enough—enough for Yume to build off of…enough to prosecute…to prosecute…

Arthur had promised that Somnus Shield would be renamed “The Fischer Method,” which truly, Robert couldn’t care less about. He just wanted all of this out of his life.

He just wanted…

His hand squeezed into a fist, fighting the old urge. He lasted a full twenty seconds before caving and booting up the PASIV. He’d taken plenty of solo, late-night trips before. One more for old times’ sake.

Within minutes, he had the proper canisters loaded, the timer set, and the needle taped to his wrist. He leaned back in the chair, already focusing his mind on where he wanted to go. Then, the hiss of the machine, and the familiar dimming of his senses, the warm cocoon of sleep that enveloped him only long enough for him to awaken within his own mind.

He wasn’t in New York this time. Or the luxury hotel. Or the hospital in the snow. Or with that crazy beauty with the haunted eyes.

He was in the bungalow in the jungle. He could hear the whirr of the insects and the chirp of the birds over the drone of the fan. The air was heavy, damp, so thick he felt like it was draped over him like a blanket. It didn’t help that there was someone lying behind him, spooning him, his body so hot and sweaty that it almost made Robert want to recoil.

Instead, he pushed back into him, and closed his eyes as a strong, tattooed arm wrapped around him to pull him closer.

They lay together for a long, long time, listening to the quiet symphony of the jungle beyond their mosquito-netted bed. Robert didn’t say anything, and the silence from behind him was what kept him anchored.

This was a dream. A memory of a moment that never was…because Charlie had never stopped talking.

When Robert couldn’t stand it anymore, he turned around. He had to see Charlie’s face, his lopsided grin, the tendrils of sandy-brown hair sticking to his forehead, the warmth and humor and honesty in his grey-blue eyes—

“Sorry, I thought it was free.”

It wasn’t Charlie. It was _Eames_.  

The face was the same, but the voice was different, smooth London rather than sing-song Manchester. He was wearing a wet steel-grey suit, his casually cocky expression painfully familiar, like Charlie right before he proposed his mischief.

“Well, it’s not!” Robert yelled, fury and grief bubbling up inside of him. He shoved Eames away from him on the bed. Only it wasn’t the bed. They were sitting in the cab in the dream of New York City, racing towards the gunfight Robert had re-lived so many times.

“Maybe we could share.” The projection of Eames stuck to his script even as he toppled against the door, like an animatronic doll.

“No, no, no!” Robert cried out, his fists striking out to hit Eames, growing more forceful with each punch. “Go back! Go back to who you were! You’re not Eames, you’re Charlie!”

The second man came up over the front seat, his face just as featureless as before. Robert was too distraught to care. Even in his follow-up experiments with Lillian, he still couldn’t generate any of the other faces. Just Charlie. Just Eames.   

He’d had enough of this. He pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants. For one moment, he considered leveling it at Eames, saying with lead what he would never get the chance to say with words—

_You betraying son of a bitch._

_You made me trust you._

_You made me believe in you._

_You made me love you._

_And you were the one who violated my mind._

Instead, he pressed the gun to his own temple, and before either of the projections could stop him, pulled the trigger.

He awoke in his lab with a gasp. It took him a moment to orient himself, to take in the bright lights dazzling his eyes, the solid feel of his chair underneath him. He sat up slowly, his breathing ragged and his eyes hot. He kept going until he folded in on himself—not even bothering to take out the needle—cradling his aching head in his hands.

_It would’ve been better if you’d never existed, Charlie._

_Why didn’t you just leave me alone?_

_“Because I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”_

“Hey. Are you okay?” an unfamiliar voice called out softly.

Robert looked up sharply. Mr. Anderson—Arthur, he’d told Robert to call him—was standing in the doorway. He had his jacket draped over his arms and a set of keys in his hand. Robert felt a twinge of annoyance as he looked at the clock. Fifteen past midnight. Technically, Arthur had owned this company for a quarter hour. Robert had figured he’d at least wait until the morning to do the switch over.

“Yeah, sorry.” Robert struggled to compose himself, trying to banish the last lingering image of Charlie’s face from his memory. “Just…just taking it out for one more spin.” He tried a smile, and knew it must look as fake it felt. He looked away instead.

“It can be hard, letting go of everything you’ve worked for,” Arthur said carefully, “but I promise you, all of this will be in good hands.”

Robert nodded absently, pulling out the needle and unhooking it from the tubing. He dropped it on the instrument tray beside him, trying not to think of how this was the last time he’d ever sit in this chair again, dream this dream again.

Dream any dream, perhaps. He was done with the PASIV.

“Can I ask, were you,” Arthur licked his lips quickly, almost nervously, “were you testing out the Somnus Shield again?”

“Will you charge me if I say yes?” Robert gave him a wan smile. “Since technically you own it now?”

Arthur looked mildly offended, but he chuckled anyway. “I just wanted to know, have you been able to make any more progress? See any more faces?”

“No.” Robert slid off his chair and rolled down his sleeve. “I’ve tried it a few times, with a few modifications to the compound, but with no change in results.” He sighed. “I don’t know…I don’t know why it was Eames’ face only. Lillian’s most recently theory is that it’s because his was a face I saw in reality recently, so it was able to form itself in my mind.” His headache began to grow. “Look, it’s all in my notes in the files. The gist is, you may need to ‘jog’ the subject’s memory to get the image to stick. Mug shots, security footage, something to give the brain to hold on to. I’ll leave that to your team to discover.”

Arthur nodded slowly, and Robert could see his mind already working. His eyes darted from the machine, to Robert’s face, and back, and he looked like he was about to speak, then stopped himself.

“Is something wrong?” Robert asked. To be honest, he didn’t much care. The idea of going back to an empty, half-packed apartment seemed suddenly better than staying here, helping Arthur unlock the final secrets of the technology Robert had lost everything to create.

“I…I need to try something. With you.” Arthur was speaking very slowly, his voice suddenly serious. He stared at Robert, hard. “I need you to look at me.”

“Okay,” Robert snorted lightly. He glanced at Arthur’s face.

“No, I mean, really look at me. Study me.” Arthur held his face completely still. Robert made himself study the little furrows in his brow, the angles of his sharp jaw and nose, the deep coffee color of his eyes, the tiny mole on his cheek. He was a good-looking man. Regardless, if this was some weird sort of come-on, Robert wasn’t in the mood for it.

“Do you think you have my face memorized?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Yeah, sure, I guess.” Robert shrugged, curiosity slowly morphing into apprehension.

Arthur looked up and swallowed hard. “Set up the PASIV again.”

Robert’s eyebrows rocketed upwards in shock. “What?”

Arthur was already moving towards the banks of compound canisters. “We need to go under. Together.” He selected two glass vials and plugged them into the machine with such ease that Robert wondered how many times he’d done it before.

“I…I don’t know.” Robert looked up at the clock. “It’s getting late, and I—”

“There’s something I need to show you. About Eames.”

All of Robert’s focus snapped back to Arthur, his heart constricting in his chest. Arthur had explained that he and Eames had once been colleagues, and that Eames had taken a more mercenary path while Arthur had decided to take dream-tech to the private sector. Robert had suspected there had been more to their history, but had been too distraught to care. Now, months later, curiosity won out, and he set to prepping the needles and tubing once more.

“Take us back to the city again,” Arthur instructed as he lay down on his seat. “To the cab.”

Robert nodded as he settled down into his own chair and activated the machine remotely. Within moments, he was back in the black cocoon, only this time he wasn’t alone, he could feel Arthur’s mind rushing with his into the dream, into the city—

The smell of rain on pavement.  The swish of cars at rush hour. The sense of urgency.  Now, a feeling of growing dread.

Robert opened his eyes just as the taxi rolled to a stop beside him. He looked at Arthur, who stood beside him, just as drenched, just as anxious. Robert got into the cab, and Arthur squeezed in beside him.

“Third and Market. Snappy,” Robert said his line for what felt like the thousandth time.

Eames ducked into the vehicle from the other side and shut the car door. If he  perceived the additional passenger, he didn’t make any notice of it.

“What are you doing?” Robert asked. He went through his dialogue with Eames, but his eyes were on Arthur beside him. Arthur seemed more and more distraught with each passing moment, his eyes locked on the seat in front of them, waiting…

The gunman man came up over the front seat, his face just as blank as before. Robert wasn’t surprised in the least…so why did Arthur look suddenly relieved?

“There’s five hundred dollars in there, and the wallet’s worth more than that. So you might as well drop me at my stop.”

“I’m afraid—” Eames started, interrupted on cue by the gunshots.

Robert didn’t even flinch anymore. He stared straight forward, watching as the silver van materialized, his subconscious security arriving to try to rescue him from these thieves, these con men—

The driver of the cab turned around to throw the cab into reverse, and Robert fully expected the same blank face under the slick shock of black hair—

It was Arthur.

Robert’s heart stopped beating.

He looked at the Arthur beside him, and the hard set of his jaw convinced Robert that he was seeing the same thing as well. His own face, on the driver’s.

“There…there has to be some mistake,” Robert breathed. “A glitch…I’m…I’m seeing faces that shouldn’t be there…” Something lit in his chest, a strange, warped hope. _Charlie…Charlie was real…he’s innocent…_

The Arthur beside him suddenly held up a pistol he hadn’t been holding before. Robert froze, looking up at the stricken expression on his face…

And the pieces fell into place.

“You were there.” He could barely choke out the words. “You were there!”

Arthur placed the gun to his temple. Robert lunged for it, managing to push it off target just far enough to prevent Arthur from shooting himself free from the dream. That, more than anything, proved Robert’s suspicions. A red, blinding fury roiled out of him, and he struggled with Arthur in the back of the cab. As Robert’s focus shifted from holding together the scenery to maintaining a hold on Arthur, the environment around them became softer, blurred like watercolor, the vibrations of the car moving under them becoming less pronounced.

Arthur managed to open the door to the taxi, and both men tumbled out onto the street. Robert expected the splash as they hit the rain-soaked Manhattan pavement, but instead they landed on a dirty concrete floor. He looked up, startled. It was a long room, one wall covered with barred windows, and before each window sat a stool, a counter, and a phone. It looked like a prison.

“How did you do that?” Arthur cried out, shoving at Robert.

Robert held on, tightening his grip on Arthur. “I didn’t!” He looked down at Arthur, realization dawning. “This is yours.”

Arthur shook his head. “Impossible. We were in your dream…” he hissed.

“The Somnus Shield formula,” Robert said. “It’s one of the effects if you’re not careful. You can jump dreamers...”

His words trailed off as a face appeared at the nearest window, haggard, pale, and bearded. Robert didn’t recognize the man, until he placed a hand on the fenced-in glass and leaned closer. Robert froze.

It was Eames.

Robert was so startled that he let go of Arthur. He had to get closer, to see for himself. He took one step, two steps…he was at the glass. Eames looked at him, his eyes bright, his features fierce and almost unrecognizable.

No. Robert recognized that fury. He’d seen it at the bar, when Charlie had been talking about “Priscilla.”

“What is this?” Robert snapped at Arthur. “Why is he like this in your mind?”

“Because that’s what he looked like when I saw him yesterday,” Arthur said hoarsely.

“You—you saw him yesterday?” Robert swallowed hard. He’d heard stories about life inside Thai prison, and to be honest, the idea of Eames suffering for what he’d done to Robert had brought him more than a little dark satisfaction. But to see it first-hand, the filth, the depravation, the hopelessness…it made Robert’s heart ache. Before he knew what he was doing, he pressed a hand to the glass. The projection of Eames didn’t move, though, didn’t make any sign of recognition. Instead, it fixed his eyes on Arthur.

“You take care of Robert, okay? You owe me that fucking much. You help him back on his feet somehow, or so help me God, Arthur, I will destroy you. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”

Robert felt as if the ground was collapsing under his feet, his heart in his throat, choking him to death. He was transfixed by the face before him, the moment of raw pain, raw honesty, and it wasn’t Eames, it was Charlie—Charles—who was thinking of Robert when his whole life had crumbled around him.

Robert hadn’t imagined the sinking feeling. The scene was breaking apart around him, bits of wall exploding out at his face. He turned in time to watch Arthur’s lifeless body slump to the floor, the silenced gun clattering at his feet.

He cursed and dove for the gun. Yes, the dream was collapsing, but minutes down here were seconds up there, giving Arthur the chance to escape. Robert put the gun to his temple. Just before he pulled the trigger, he turned to give the incarcerated Charlie one more look. He was already gone.

Waking up was much more violent this time, Robert flailing into a sitting position before he’d even fully awoken. He half expected to awake alone, or to find Arthur halfway to the door, but to his surprise he was still sitting in his seat, carefully pulling the needle out of his arm. His eyes were heavy, his lips downturned, and he heaved a deep sigh. He looked exhausted.

“There are some things I need to tell you,” Arthur said slowly, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Robert didn’t move from his chair as Arthur explained everything—the job that he, Eames, and others had been hired for, and to what end. He explained that it had been an inception, not an extraction, and just how revolutionary that was. He explained how Eames had come to him with the idea for this second Fischer job, the extraction to steal the secrets of Somnus Shield for Arthur’s company…and how in the end, Eames had changed his mind.

By the end of Arthur’s story, Robert was too shocked to feel the full richness of the anger he knew was his right to feel. So many lies, so much deception. Truly, there was no one in the world Robert could trust.

“Why…why are you telling me this now?” Robert asked quietly. “Don’t tell me you suddenly felt guilty, after you won the game.”

Arthur swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. “I thought I could handle it. I couldn’t. Not after I saw Eames. Not after I saw you.”

Robert gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “You’re never going to survive in business if destroying two men’s lives is enough to keep you from sleeping at night. I’ve destroyed hundreds with the stroke of a pen.”

“Yeah, and you stopped,” Arthur said sharply.

“Because you made me,” Robert spat, “with the idea you planted.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “The goal was to get you to break up the empire. Not leave the financial field all together. That was your choice. Studying dream-share was your choice.”

“Trying to catch people like you was my choice,” Robert snapped. “Tell me…who hired you?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Arthur said quietly.

“Why? Let me guess, they’ll kill you?”

“Without hesitation. And everyone else involved.” Arthur swallowed hard. “The other people…they’re friends of mine. They’re not bad people. Just…they had their own reasons for doing what they did. It’s not an excuse…just…” Arthur trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

“So. What do I do with you?” Robert asked slowly. He wished he’d brought his pistol with him, but after everything that had happened, he hadn’t thought it safe to have it with him anymore.

“You could turn me in, I suppose. I’d go to prison, like Eames, and your research would most likely be handed over to a successor at Yume. You might even be able to join on again, figure out the rest of the people involved in the original job.”

“And why shouldn’t I do that? If Char—Eames, is going to be punished, why shouldn’t you all be, too?”

The image of Charlie behind bars floated up in Robert’s memory—his haunted eyes and haggard appearance. His heart twisted painfully.

Arthur sat up straighter and let out a deep breath. “Because I have a proposition for you.”


	18. {Eames} Restitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Charles...please. Hurry.”_

It had been almost six months in here, by Eames’ reckoning, and he was no stranger to keeping time when he was doing time. He was faring well, considering the horribly cramped conditions, the language barrier, and the meager food. It was by far the worst prison he’d ever served in, but he knew that once he got to the UK their prisons would seem luxurious. It was pretty much the only thing he had to look forward to, so instead he focused on the moment—making allies with British drug-runners serving hard time, running his own little operations trading cigarettes and commodities. He knew how to survive in a place like this. Kept his mind from dwelling on other things—the things he’d lost, the people he’d never see again, the mistakes he’d never be able to make reparations for.

_ “Why did you come back? Was it some sick compulsion? A need to return to the scene of the crime?” _

_ This _ was his life now.

So, it came as a surprise when his transfer arrived, two bored guards motioning him out of his cell and telling him to gather his meager possessions in their broken English. Eames did as he was told, bidding farewell to all twelve of his cellmates with a nod, and followed the guards. 

“Do I get a sit-down with my solicitor, first?” Eames asked. 

The guards shook their heads. “Too crowded here. Taking you to Bang Kwang.”

Eames’ heart sank, though he hadn’t realized it’d even risen. Conditions in Bang Kwang were famously worse than here. He’d known extradition from Thailand was going to be horrendously complicated, he’d just had no idea it would take so long he’d have to transfer to another Thai prison first.

He was handcuffed and loaded into a transport van, and Eames felt grateful he wasn’t one of the men in leg irons that rattled around the prison. He was obviously the first one on the van, and he waited for the other prisoners to be loaded on.

However, the guards shut the door behind him and walked around to the driver’s cab of vehicle. A jolt of adrenaline shot through Eames. This—this didn’t look good. He’d done his part, kept his mouth shut to not implicate Arthur and Saito—no matter how badly he may have wanted to—but he still had other enemies out there. God, could LeMaire have tracked him down here?

His trepidation grew as they drove out of the prison, and after they merged onto the freeway he noticed they were driving south, not north where he knew Bang Kwang was. His stomach knotted, and he began searching around the vehicle for something, anything to use as a weapon. There was nothing, of course. All he had were his two cuffed hands.

The van drove for almost an hour, out into the rural jungle areas, and Eames did his best to watch through the barred windows at the back of the van, to memorize landmarks, topography, anything that would help him if he got away. He knew it was just a reflex, a way to feel in control. Wasn’t much he could do if there were more than the two guards, especially if they were armed.

The van pulled off the highway, suddenly, onto a bumpy dirt road that Eames could barely see through the canopy of trees. Now he was convinced—they had brought him out here to shoot him. Despite his best efforts to calm himself, panic began to seep into his mind. After everything he’d gone through, everything he’d survived, to die like this, alone in the jungle…

_ How did you think it was going to end for a traitor like you? _

The van stopped, and Eames forced himself to take a series of deep, calming breaths. It wasn’t over yet. If they thought he was going down without a fight, they were mistaken.

The door to the van swung open, and Eames prepared to leap at the guards. But one already had a pistol trained on him, and Eames deflated. He swallowed down his frustration, trying to keep his fear under control as he followed their instructions to step slowly towards the door. However, fear turned to terror as he looked out the open doors and saw the black, unmarked town car sitting in the middle of the field. One of the rear windows rolled down, and he instinctively began to shrink away back into the cover of the van—

“Eames, it’s all right.” Arthur’s head appeared in the window, his expression calm. “No one is going to hurt you.”

It took a few seconds for Arthur’s words to reach through his gut fear, and another few more before he considered believing them. There was a time when he would’ve trusted Arthur, but now, after everything that had happened…

“Charles,” Arthur said quietly, “please. Hurry.”

Eames swallowed hard. Did he try to run? No. Stay in the van and insist the guards take him back to prison? Not a chance. What choice did he have, then, other than to listen to Arthur?

He slowly moved out of the van, his eyes darting between Arthur, the guards, and the gun trained on him. Once he stepped down, the guard with the free hands unlocked Eames’ cuffs and dropped his plastic bag of belongings at his feet. The armed guard backed away and holstered his weapon, and then, with a nod at Arthur, they both turned back to the vehicle. 

Eames watched, dazed. This had to be some weird dream….he’d been hijacked in the truck into a shared dream to see what he’d give away, or maybe he’d flushed enough of the Somnacin out of his system to start dreaming again normally. Either was, there was no way this could be real, right?

“Come on.” Arthur shoved his car door open. “We’re going to be late.”

Eames looked around, again considering making a break for it. But he had no idea where he was, and he had nothing to his name but the clothes he’d been arrested with in the bag at his feet. So, with a shaky sigh, he picked up his bag and climbed into the car beside Arthur. The car started moving before he’d even shut the door, and Arthur checked the tree line nervously as they rejoined the dirt road.

Once Arthur seemed confident in their escape, he turned his attention on Eames. They stared at each other, until Arthur finally broke eye contact with a deep sigh.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness, and I don’t want it. I have my own reasons for doing this,” Arthur muttered. 

He pulled a black duffel bag onto his lap and unzipped it. Eames stiffened, half-expecting Arthur to pull out his Glock, but all he saw were clothes, a passport, and several wads of cash in different denominations. Eames’ eyebrows shot up, disbelief coursing through him. Was Arthur…helping him escape?

“This should get you to Rangoon,” Arthur said quietly, and placed the bag in Eames’ lap. “There’s an old cache of mine in a train station there. Money, weapons, forged documents you can modify for yourself. Follow the map and directions.” He pointed to a small, folded square of paper on top of everything.

Eames studied the bag. It looked…familiar. Here, the yellow streak of paint on the side from when he’d scraped it along a wall in Mombasa, and there, the white thread tied around the handle from a paper luggage tag.

“How’d you get my bag?” Eames asked hoarsely. 

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. “Fischer was going to give it to the cops. I intercepted it before it got there.” 

“Why?”

Arthur shrugged. “I had no idea what you had in there. There could have been something that could—”

“Implicate you,” Eames finished. He snorted lightly. “Find anything interesting?”

“I didn’t search it.” Arthur said quietly. “Figured just having it out of play was good enough.”

The car pulled off the dirt road and onto a different paved highway than the one Eames had been driven in on. 

“Where are you taking me?” he finally asked.

“To a plane. It’ll get you across the border, but after that…” Arthur shook his head. Eames knew what he was saying. 

_ You’re on your own. _

Eames stared at the duffel bag on his lap, the key to his escape. He should be elated, shouldn’t he? Freedom, within his grasp. 

Then why was he still convinced this was a trap?

“Why are you doing this?” Eames asked. “After everything.”

Arthur looked out the window, considering. “I made a deal.”

“With whom?”

“Fischer.”

Eames’ heart stopped beating.

“What did he do?” Eames croaked. “What did you make him do to get me out?”

Arthur looked at him, surprise and hurt lining his face. “Nothing.”

Eames’ anger grew. “Tell me, or I will—”

“He gave his word not to implicate me,” Arthur finally said. 

Shock rocked through Eames. “You, you told him that you were part of the inception?”

Arthur sighed, and nodded. “I did. But he still doesn’t know about the others. Any of them.” He fixed Eames with a hard look. “And it’s going to stay that way, am I clear?”

Eames nodded. He didn’t care about retribution, or “bringing anyone to justice.” He just wanted out, away from Arthur, away from Thailand…away from dream-share. 

He almost asked Arthur about Robert, where he’d gone, but he didn’t. Robert had bargained for Eames’ freedom, given up the vengeance he’d sought for years. He didn’t know what that meant, but it would be the thought Eames knew he’d cling to for the rest of his life—that despite how much Robert hated him, he wouldn’t let Eames die alone in prison. 

The car pulled up to a tiny airfield, the runway terrifyingly short. Sitting on the tarmac was a small private jet, surprisingly luxurious-looking amid the ramshackle facilities. The last time he’d seen one of Arthur’s jets, it had filled Eames with a mixture of envy and disgust. Now, relief threatened to override his trepidation. He kept it in check. He had to stay alert.

Eames opened the door and stepped out of the car. He had made it three steps before he realized that Arthur wasn’t going to follow him to see him off. Made sense, he supposed. The less he was seen with an escaping criminal, the better.

He did roll down the window after he closed the door, though, and fixed Eames with a strained little smile. Despite everything that had happened, Eames found himself returning it. He nodded his head in silent thanks.

Arthur nodded in kind. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Eames.”

Eames turned and walked towards the plane, still half expecting armed guards to jump out at him, or the Royal Thai Police to roll up at any second. No one impeded his progress to the plane, though, and as he climbed up the small flight of stairs he spared a look back at the car. Arthur was watching expectantly.

Huh. Maybe the ambush was inside.

Eames braced himself and ducked through the open hatch.

There, sitting in the otherwise empty cabin, was Robert.

Eames’ breathing stopped, his stomach clenching as cold sweat doused his body. What…why…how…

He heard the car’s engine start, and he whipped his head around just in time to see Arthur’s pleased little smile as he rolled up the window. 

Eames turned back to Robert, who watched him silently. His gaze was intense, and Eames could see the hard rise and fall of his chest. His hands gripped the armrests of his seat so tightly the knuckles were almost white.

They just stared at each other, completely unable to speak, to move, the gulf between them huge and terrifying and impossible to cross. Had Eames been in his right mind—not nutritionally deprived, not shell-shocked from his months incarcerated, not reeling from his unexpected and newfound freedom—he might have known what to say, where to start. But it was all he could do to stay standing upright, to keep the sob of shock lodged in his throat.

It was the pilot who broke their silence, and he nudged Eames into the cabin and urged him to buckle up so they could take off. Dazed, Eames did as he was instructed, and after a moment’s consideration, picked the seat furthest away from Robert that still faced him. If Robert seemed surprised or disappointed by Eames’ choice, he didn’t show it. He just turned to look out his window, breathing hard, his lips pressed in a thin line.

God, how Eames had missed those lips.

After a few minutes, the plane took flight. Eames watched as the ground shrank below them. He knew he should feel weightless, free, but all he knew was the rock-hard knot in his stomach, the dread creeping up on him.

Had Robert brought him up here to kill him in person?

Robert coughed quietly, clearing his throat. “There’s a bathroom in the back. Razors. Soap. If you want to get cleaned up.”

It was only then that Eames realized how he must look, so haggard and unkempt. He brushed the stubble that he hadn’t touched since the outdoor shower three days before, and looked down at his ratty prison ensemble. He nodded, and without a word, headed to the back with the duffel bag to refresh himself. It would be nice to get somewhat clean—and to get away from Robert to think.

Eames took his time, splashing himself down in the tiny sink, shaving his face, slicking back his hair. Once he had changed into one of the sets of clothes in the bag, he looked almost normal.  Well, except for how the clothes hung off of him. He’d lost weight in prison. Arthur must’ve gotten these based off of Eames’ old size. 

There was no stalling anymore, was there? Eames took a deep breath, and went back into the cabin.

He’d half expected to find Robert in the same contemplative pose. Or maybe even pointing a gun at him. What he hadn’t expected was to find Robert at the back of the cabin, using the jet’s microwave to heat up two styrofoam bowls of noodles. Eames looked down at the small dining table. There was a plastic bag of raw, cut up mango, dragon fruit, rambutan. His mouth watered, his fingers positively aching. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fruit.

“Go ahead,” Robert said quietly. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Eames managed to control himself, seat himself in the chair and serve himself a couple of mango spears onto the waiting paper plate. He almost cried when the sweet fruit touched his tongue, it tasted so damn good. He couldn’t help himself; he began wolfing it down. Robert said nothing, simply placed a bowl of noodles near Eames and tucked into his own meal. 

They ate together in silence. Eames stole the occasional glance up at Robert, his gaze skittering away when he realized he was being watched in kind. Robert looked much like he had when Eames had first encountered him in Pattaya—pale, tired, his wide blue eyes rimmed with red. His hair had grown out some, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. 

It was the most gorgeous sight Eames had ever seen.

Robert waited for Eames to finish his food before pushing aside his own barely-touched bowl. He folded his hands in front of him and took a deep breath. Eames braced himself. Here it came.

Robert’s mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed. He swallowed hard. 

He had no idea what to say.

The realization was surprisingly comforting.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Robert finally decided on, his voice strained and quiet.

_ That makes two of us, _ Eames thought. He didn’t say it out loud, though. His months in prison had made him quieter, his quips and humor buried underneath caution and menace. He waited for Robert to go on.

“I should be on a plane to Sydney right now. But I’m here instead. Because—because I had to talk to you. In person. Before you disappear forever.”

Eames leaned back in his chair. Between the fresh clothes, the food, and the realization that Robert wasn’t going to kill him, he was in a stable enough space to handle this conversation. 

“All right,” Eames said carefully.

Robert pulled a slim, manila folder from the bag at his side, and placed it on the table. He opened it, and Eames saw his old military ID photo, documents bearing the logo for Project Somnacin, and CD-ROM discs in paper sleeves. So. It seemed like Robert had conducted his own research on Eames.

“Your buddy Arthur is quite resourceful,” Robert said coolly. “He pretty much found everything I asked for him to find on you. Your military service record, your psychological profile from your interview for Project Somnacin, even some notes you made from the—what did you call it?—the Fischer Job.” He gave a cold, humorless smile that made Eames’ stomach clench. His smile fell quickly, though, replaced by a tired little frown. “I’ve been poring over these for days, and still, I have questions I cannot answer.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Eames said. 

“No lies. No stories,” Robert warned.

“I promise, I won’t lie to you, Robert.” 

“God, even just hearing you say that makes me want to hit you again.”

Eames looked down at his hands, face burning in shame. “I’ve got no reason to lie anymore, Robert. I’ve got nothing to gain. Nothing to lose. If it’ll give you some sort of peace, I’ll tell you the fucking story of my life.”

“All right.” Robert studied him, hard. “Your record confirms that your birth name is indeed Charles Edward Raymond. If you were going undercover when you…you  _ befriended  _ me,” he tripped over the word, “then why did you use something so close to your real name?”

Wow. He wasn’t wasting time on the little questions, was he?

“Because I thought it would make it easier.”

“Make what easier?”

“To make my role genuine. I’ve done other cons under other names, but nothing this…this personal. This long-term. If you were calling me ‘Matthew’ or ‘John,’ I might have had a little moment of hesitation before answering and tipped you off that something was wrong. But Charlie is the name I grew up with. No one’s called me it in over ten years, but it’s still something I respond to easily.”

Robert thought for a moment before nodding and looking down at the file again. “You were born in Manchester Memorial Hospital. Your last permanent address was in Manchester before it became all BFPOs. So. Why are you speaking with a London accent now?”

“Because it’s what I’ve used for years.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier for people to understand. A London accent is more common, people don’t assume more beyond, ‘he’s British.’ If they hear something a bit more unusual, they instantly want to know where you’re from, start asking nosy questions. It was best to be nondescript in my line of work.” 

“Why did you use your old accent with me, then?”

“I…” Eames hesitated. “I didn’t know I was going to until it came out of my mouth. I think…thinking in terms of Charlie brought it out, maybe.” Eames hesitated for a long moment. “Would…would you prefer if I use it again?”

Robert held his breath, then let it out in an explosive sigh. “I don’t know.”

“I can understand if it’s hard for you to hear,” Eames slipped back into his real cadence—Charlie’s cadence, “but…this really is my born voice. It wasn’t an act.”

Robert turned away for a moment, eyes unfocused as he pressed his fingers to his lips. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Was it always your intention to seduce me?”

“No. Not at all.” Eames shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t even know you were gay. You did such a good job hiding it that when I was researching you for…for the job before, it never even came up. So, seduction wasn’t even an option when we were making the new plan. I meant to become your friend to gain your trust. What happened afterwards was…” Eames swallowed hard. This conversation was getting harder and harder to have. “It was organic.”

Robert stared out the window, lips tight with anger. “Organic. That’s what you call that.”

“I call it rotten fucking luck.”

Robert’s attention snapped back to Eames, hard and brittle. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Eames forced himself to meet Robert’s piercing gaze. A strange calm settled over him, the same that had gotten him through some of the hardest times in prison. “I mean that I realized too late that you were the perfect man for me.”

Robert froze, the color draining from his face. “Don’t you dare.”

“You asked me to tell you the truth, and I’m telling you. Yes, I felt sorry for you at first, especially when I saw just how much damage we did when we incepted you. But then I got to know you. Saw the man you’d become. Yeah, you were a bit lost, but you were free from your golden yoke, and you were figuring out who you were, what you wanted out of your own life.” Eames swallowed hard. “And then I figured out you wanted me.”

“Convenient.”

“No. No, it wasn’t.” Eames laughed bitterly. “Because…because I wanted you, too. Had since the moment I saw your picture in a file.”

“Love at first sight?” Robert sneered. “Please.”

“I didn’t say it was love,” Eames said quietly, face burning. “Big difference between love and lust. I probably would’ve been fine finishing the job on you if it had just been sex, if I’d planned on just seducing you that first night. But I got to know you instead. So by the time it happened…” Eames held up his hands helplessly. “Organic.”

“Which is why you got me away from the resort,” Robert said slowly. “Away from Arthur. You changed your mind.”

“Yes. I couldn’t do it. Not again. I couldn’t…violate your trust like that.”

Robert was quiet for a long, long time. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who you were. What had happened. When we were making those stupid plans together, were you really thinking you’d just fool me for the rest of your life? Or were you planning on just dumping me somewhere once the money had run out?”

“I meant every word I said to you in the jungle.” Eames whispered. “I wasn’t going to abandon you. Ever.”

“So, you were just going live a lie, then?”

“If it meant becoming the man you thought I was, a man worthy of you, yes. I thought maybe, someday, I could tell you, once things were…were more solid between us, once I’d had time to prove myself…” Eames trailed off. “Fucking stupid, I know. I…I panicked. I didn’t really have a plan for that scenario, Robert. I’d never fallen for a mark before.”

Robert sucked his breath in hard. “‘Fallen for a mark.’ God, I don’t know what part of that sentence bothers me more.” He let out a hard, dry laugh, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Oh, why am I even doing this to myself?”

“Because you’ve been obsessed with me for years.”

Robert dropped his hand, and fixed Eames with a cold look. “If you’re insinuating that somehow I knew—”

“Your dream. Pinwheel. Somnus Shield. You’ve spent every bit of your life since your father’s death trying to figure out who came into your head and what they stole from you. I don’t blame you one bit. But now you know.”

“I don’t know everyone who was involved.”

“You know enough,” Eames said carefully, “and deep down, you know that seeing those other faces isn’t going to give you any peace.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Because if knowing the truth gave you peace, you wouldn’t be sitting on this plane with me right now. You’d be on your way to Sydney.”

Silence filled the cabin, stretching out for an eternity.

“Why?” Robert finally whispered.

Eames’ heart knotted. “Why what?”

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

A piece of Eames broke off, shattered. He looked down at his empty bowl, studying the patterns leftover from the spices and bits of green onion.

“Because I’m a fucking selfish prick, who’s made a lifetime of bad choices.”

Robert looked away sharply, and Eames didn’t miss the bright sheen that rimmed his bottom eyelids, the way he pressed his lips together again.

“I’m sorry,” Eames said slowly. “For everything. You’re right. I should’ve just left you alone. You…you were doing just fine, and now, because of me…” Eames looked down, hating the sudden heat building behind his eyes. “Because of me you’ve lost everything.”

“Not everything,” Robert said, his tone forcibly cool. “Arthur paid me a very good price for Pinwheel. I recouped a lot of losses. I’ll survive.”

“I’m glad,” Eames said, and meant it. Not that he had a right to know, but… “What are you going to do now?”

Robert leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, pressed them against his lips. “I don’t know. Start over, again, somehow.”

Eames nodded. “Seems to be a bit of that going around these days.”

“Where are you going to go?” Robert asked, almost as if he didn’t want to know the answer.

“I have no fucking idea,” Eames said. “Rangoon first, then from there…” He shrugged. “Up until an hour ago I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison. Going to need some time to figure it out.”

Robert nodded, concern creasing his brow. Eames’ curiosity grew. 

“Can I ask you something?” Eames asked slowly.

“Perhaps.”

“Why…why did you make this deal? With Arthur.” Eames looked around the plane. “You finally got what you wanted—the bastard who fucked with your head behind bars. Why…why risk so much just to set me free?”

Robert fidgeted with the plastic fork sticking out of his bowl. He was quiet so long that Eames was sure he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he looked up at Eames.

“I saw you in there.”

“Excuse me?”

“I dream-shared with Arthur. Things got a little strange, and we ended up in his dream. It was the day after he visited you in prison.”

Eames sucked in his breath. Yeah. That hadn’t been one of Eames’ best days in Klong Prem. 

“You looked like you were living through hell.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Justice?”

“I…I thought I did. And maybe if it was any other man, I would’ve been okay with it. But it was…was you.” Robert looked away. “And then you spoke. The one thing you wanted…”

“Was for Arthur to take care of you,” Eames finished slowly.

“Even when you were trapped in a waking nightmare—a nightmare I’d put you in—you were thinking of me.” Robert snorted lightly. “So. Maybe it’s weakness. Or maybe it’s because it’s exactly the opposite of what my father would’ve done. But I decided that…that the best way to move on from all of this was to forgive my enemy.”

“Forgive me?” Eames felt lightheaded suddenly, dizzy with disbelief. 

“Oh, I haven’t yet,” Robert said, his clipped tone anchoring Eames back in his body. 

“Ah. Can’t say I blame you.”

“But…but this is a good first step.”

Their eyes locked across the table, and for one brief, beautiful moment, Robert looked like Robby—centered, open, calm.

“Come with me,”  Eames whispered.

“What?” Sheer confusion creased Robert’s face.

Horror raced through Eames as he realized that he’d spoken his thought out loud. God, just when it seemed like he’d made some headway with Robert.

Then realization dawned. Once this plane touched down in Mynamar, he would be on the run for the rest of his life. He would never be able to see Robert again, never be able to make it right for him. If he wanted any chance to earn his forgiveness…it was now. 

He had nothing left to lose.

“I can’t go back in time. I can’t change who was. I can’t take back the lies, the cons, the million ways I hurt you. God knows, I would do anything,  _ anything _ at all if I could. But I can’t. All I can do is spend my life trying to make it up to you. If that means leaving you alone, fine. You’ll never see me again. But, if there’s even the smallest chance that I…I could actually earn your forgiveness, give you real peace, then I will fucking move mountains to make it happen.”

Robert stared at Eames, completely stunned into silence. Eames could see a dozen different emotions flickering across his face in the span of a few seconds—fear and hate vying with hope and longing, grief and confusion giving way to the smallest shred of tenderness.

“You’re on the run,” Robert finally whispered. “How…how do you expect to make it up to me when you’re going to spend your life looking over your shoulder?”

“It’s how I’ve spent the last ten years, Robert.” Eames gave him a small, hesitant smile. “I know how to hide from the law.”

“So. What you’re asking is for me to leave everything behind to follow you on the lam, when all you’ve ever done is lie to me and use me?” Robert shook his head, pressed his lips into a hard line. “You must think I’m a fucking moron.”

Eames opened and shut his mouth, his face hot. When Robert put it that way, it sounded downright asinine, didn’t it?

The PA system pinged, and the captain announced that the plane would begin its descent into Mynamar. Eames rubbed his face, using the gesture to buy him the moments he needed to compose himself.

Well, that was that, then. 

Eames left the table, leaving Robert his privacy for the remainder of the flight. Eames didn’t look at him, though he could practically feel the waves of anguish radiating from Robert.

Why couldn’t Eames just leave well enough alone?

As soon as the plane stopped, Eames was up, his duffle bag in hand. He waited impatiently as the pilot opened the door, and when the first waft of hot, tropical air hit him he was already moving. His foot was on the top step when Robert’s voice stopped him.

“Charlie?”

Eames froze. It was the first time Robert had spoken his name since he’d gotten on board. He steeled himself and turned to face Robert for the last time. 

“Here.” Robert pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Marlboro Reds. Making sure he had Eames’ attention, he tossed them lightly at him. Eames caught them. The lighter came soon after. He pocketed them both, and gave Robert one last feeble smile. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he got off the plane, leaving Robert behind for good. 

Eames didn’t let himself look back as he crossed the tiny airfield. It was even smaller than the one they’d taken off from in Thailand. There were only a couple of employees milling under a corrugated metal awning, and Eames saw what he hoped was a taxi stand. Otherwise, he was walking to the nearest village. It was the only car for miles.

He was under the awning when he heard the whine of the plane’s engines. He had to force himself not to turn, not to watch as the plane taxied down the short runway and took off. He wondered if Robert was watching. He hoped he wasn’t.

_ There he goes.  _

_ You fucked that one up royally, didn’t you, Charlie? _

The knot that had wound itself around his emotions began to uncoil, rapidly and unbidden. No…not here, not now.

He busied himself with the pack of cigarettes. It was almost new, only two fags missing. He pulled one out, which was a struggle with his shaking hands. He managed to put it between his lips, and then tried to light it with the Bic. His hands just couldn’t do it, though. His thumb just kept missing the paddle, or the wind would blow the flame out, or it wouldn’t catch—

“Give me that.”

A hand snatched the cigarette out of his mouth. Eames jumped, already struggling to compose himself to face the employee who was doubtlessly just annoyed watching this strange, strung-out man fighting with his lighter. Eames turned, unsure if he was going to protest or offer thanks—

_ Oh. Oh, God.  _

It wasn’t an airport employee. It was Robert.

Eames stood, dumbfounded, unable to believe his eyes as he watched Robert slide the butt of the cigarette between his lips and easily light it. He took a long, hard drag, and held it out to Eames. Eames just stared between the cigarette and Robert, his hands frozen at his side.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it,” Robert said, and took another drag. Despite his cool demeanor, Eames saw the tremor in his hand as he brought the smoke up for another pull. 

That was enough to convince Eames of the truth—Robert was here. With him.

It was too much for Eames. The sob he’d been fighting since he’d gotten off the plane pushed against throat, and he whipped his head aside, covering his hand with his mouth as he struggled to compose himself.

“Why?” Eames finally croaked, when he trusted his voice to speak. “After everything I did to you…”

“Because I’m a fucking moron.” Robert’s voice shook, hard.

Eames looked at him. He had to see Robert’s face, read his expression, know if he was in his right mind. Robert met his gaze evenly, openly, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You get one chance.  _ One  _ chance to make this right,” Robert whispered.

“That’s…that’s all I want from you. All I’ll ever ask for. Another chance.” 

“I’ll tell you now. I don’t know if things can ever be right between us.” Robert swallowed hard, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “But I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t give you a chance. I already have enough to regret.”

“I promise. I won’t give you more, Robert.”

“That, we’ll see.” Robert sighed, and nodded towards the road. “Come on. We can take the cab into Mawlamyine, and from there a train into Rangoon.” 

Eames looked up, impressed. “You have this all figured out, don’t you?”

Robert gave Eames a small sideways smile, and hefted his bag over his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who can make an escape plan.” He held out the half-finished cigarette.

“Well then, lead on,” Eames said as he took the fag. He took a long drag as he picked up his bag. Then, side-by-side, they made their way down the dusty road.


	19. {Robert} The Long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Will you stop being_ Eames?”

Eames slept on the floor for the first four months of their travels.

It was cheaper to get rooms with one bed, he said, and he was used to sleeping on concrete floors by now, after his time in Klong Prem. A bed would be too cushy, make it hard for him to sleep.

Robert knew it was because he was doing his own sort of penance. He let him.

Eames didn’t make any motions to touch Robert, not even for a hug, or to hold his hand. He kept his distance, and once, Robert thought he saw Eames raise his hand to brush a stray crumb off Robert’s cheek, before stopping and just telling him about it. There was always a buffer of space between them.

That suited Robert just fine.

They talked in spurts, in starts. Questions became conversations. Robert wondered if there would ever be a time when he just believed what Charlie told him, without wondering in the back of his mind if these were all stories, lies to get him to trust Charlie again.

If that was the case, telling him about his previous life as a forger and a con might not be the best tactic. But, damn, it was fascinating stuff.

Conversations eventually became easier the longer they spent time together in each other’s company, and Robert couldn’t help but ask all those first date questions again, trying to determine the line between Eames and Charlie.

“Favorite song.”

“‘Paint it Black.’”

“Favorite book.”

“Still _The Spy Who Came in From the Cold_.”

Favorite movie. Most memorable meal. First fight. First kiss.

The answers were still the same. Each time Charlie answered Robert’s questions there was a sort of sadness to his tone, though he never asked Robert to stop, never said what Robert knew he really wanted to say: _“I never lied to you about any of that. It was me all along, Robby.”_

They explored Southeast Asia by foot, by train, by motor scooter. It was easier to keep moving, not just for Eames’ safety, but for Robert’s sanity.  It made it feel more like a vacation—which meant it could end whenever he wanted it to. He could simply walk away, board any plane with his legal passport, and end this experiment with Charlie if it ever became too much to bear. He never told Charlie as such, but he knew that Charlie knew. He could see it in the way he watched him sometimes, the marvel that he even had this chance, the fear that he’d do something to ruin it and bring this all to an end.

He didn’t try to buy Robert’s trust, and Robert was grateful for that. No gifts, no tokens, nothing. The closest thing was a new shirt in Cambodia when Robert sweated through his on a trek through Angkor Wat, from a vendor with five children at her heels. Robert only said, “Thank you,” and took the shirt, and he didn’t miss how Charlie walked away to give him some privacy as he changed in the middle of the road. No secret ogling.

That night he actually brushed Charlie’s shoulder good-night as he slid off towards the guest house’s shared bathroom.

It was hard. Sometimes when he looked at Charlie, all he saw was Eames, the smug face in the cab. Sometimes all he saw was a quiet, hesitant man, changed by loss, by fear, by incarceration. And sometimes he was Charlie—caring, generous, and gently wry. Those times were sometimes the hardest. Robert ached to just give in, to believe.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

They were in Bali when they got the news—Eames was dead. Somehow Arthur had cleared their tracks, and news reports confirmed that the notorious criminal’s body had been found on a beach not far from Pattaya. That was how they knew it was Arthur’s doing. They stared at the news article on Robert’s laptop in shock, the implications of it sinking in slowly. No one would be coming for him, as long as they were careful, kept their heads down. Charlie was free.

That night they celebrated by dressing up a bit and going out to an actual bar. Robert let himself get a little drunk, and the liquor relaxed him enough to enjoy Charlie’s company, to forget for a bit all the weight between them. They talked, they laughed, and Robert remembered why he was still there when he watched Charlie smile so openly, laugh so richly. It lit Robert up, warmed him to the core.  He had the sudden impulse to kiss Charlie…but instead opted to touch the back of his hand. He didn’t pull back when Charlie turned his palm up and wrapped his fingers around Robert’s, and the hopeful little smile Charlie gave him melted a cold, jagged part of himself that he’d been closely guarding.

They stayed in Bali for a while—a few weeks—and then they were on their way again. Robert was getting used to this life on the road. He’d traveled before, plenty, but not like this. This wasn’t vacationing—this was wandering. There were no luxury accommodations, no VIP cars on the trains. Robert was rubbing shoulder-to-shoulder with people he never would’ve even considered looking at before, and each time they wandered through a slum or a rural village, Robert felt a knot in the pit of his gut. How…how had he gone his whole life without realizing just how little people lived with?

Charlie was patient with him, though Robert could tell his occasional squeamishness was a source of some frustration. There were days that Robert refused to leave their accommodations, unable to deal with the dirt and the crowding and the language barriers and the strange food. Sometimes, Robert just wanted a steak and a nice merlot out of a fucking clean glass. He missed privacy and high thread count sheets, missed the feeling of being someone _important_.

But he wasn’t important. He was just another person on this dustball of a planet, and no one gave a fuck who he was.

No one except for Charlie.

Charlie, on the other hand, was surprisingly good at making friends when he wanted to be. With a few careful words and well-timed laughs, Charlie could find almost anything they needed—information, good restaurants, cheap lodging, medicine. It made Robert deeply uncomfortable, though, watching Charlie transform right before his eyes, change into, well...

“Will you stop being _Eames_?” Robert finally snapped one afternoon in Ho Chi Minh City, after they’d walked away from a group of Quebecan backpackers who had bought them lunch after Charlie had charmed them with his broken French.

Charlie visibly flinched, but remained silent. It just made Robert even madder. He was having a bad day to start with, and something in him just snapped to see Charlie looking so animated, so talkative…so like the Charlie he’d fallen for back in Thailand.

Charlie the lie.

“You can’t even tell me you’ll try not to.” Robert knew he was goading Charlie. He didn’t care.

“I—” Charlie stopped in the middle of the street and closed his eyes. He took a deep, long breath through his nose, then let it out slowly. He was trying to control himself. “Eames is gone,” he finally said.

“Not if you keep using him to get us free meals!” Robert hissed.

“A man’s got to eat somehow,” Charlie said quietly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Robert snapped.

Charlie shook his head and continued walking towards the guest house. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

Suspicion rose in Robert. He thought back over the past few days, mentally cataloging their meals, their activities:

_“I’ll have the special.”_

_“Just soup, thanks.”_

_“Want to see a movie while we’re in the city?”_

_“Nah. Not really in the mood. How ‘bout a walk?”_

Robert hurried to catch Charlie, and grabbed his arm to stop him. “Why didn’t you say you were out of money?”

Charlie wrenched his arm out of Robert’s and looked around, embarrassed. “I’m not out. I’m just...conserving.”

Robert felt suddenly foolish. He hadn’t even thought about Charlie’s finances, especially since Charlie had always said he was fine, he could hold up his end of their shared expenses with the money he’d picked up in Arthur’s cache in Rangoon. Robert hadn’t even considered what would happen when it started to run out. “I...I could loan—”

“No. Never.” Charlie began walking again. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“Charlie…” Robert’s annoyance had deflated, replaced with an odd sort of concern. If any of Charlie’s stories were anything to go by, his ways of making money usually ended with him owing more than he earned.

Charlie looked over his shoulder, and Robert didn’t miss the strange gleam in his eye, something akin to hurt. “Don’t worry. I won’t be _Eames_ about it.”

Ironically, it was one of Charlie’s new backpacker buddies who presented a solution to the problem when she told them about an organic farm about 25 miles away that would exchange labor for free room and board. Though Robert was secretly horrified by the idea of working on a farm in the middle of nowhere, he agreed to give it a try for Charlie. Just to put a freeze on expenses until he could figure something else out.

Robert regretted his decision the minute they arrived. The handful of other Westerners were all college-age backpacker types, and the rest of the farm’s occupants were Vietnamese farmers who seemed mildly amused by the presence of all these travelers. Their free lodgings were in a cramped bunkhouse shared with four other visitors, and the meals were...humble, if Robert was feeling polite about it. He fell asleep that first sweaty, miserable night wishing he was anywhere else, dreading the day of labor that lay ahead.

The first day was the hardest by far. Though strengthened by weeks of traveling by foot, he still wasn’t nearly as strong or quick as the other farmers or travelers. The hours seemed to crawl by as he picked cucumbers, feeling stupid every time he needed to stop to ask someone if this one was ripe or not. By mid-morning he was aching and sweaty. He kept thinking of his past lives, of his air conditioned offices, his work with machines and chemicals and spreadsheets and numbers, his assistants who brought him meals and coffee and anything he wanted—

Someone nudged a plastic bottle of water into his hand. He looked up, eyes stinging as sweat dripped into them, and was greeted by Charlie’s hesitant grin. Robert nodded in thanks, and as he drank he took in the sight of Charlie in his white tank top, his tanned biceps flexing as he returned to work.

This...this was what he’d given everything up for. For him.

It got easier each day. He still hated picking days, but when someone in the office got wind that Robert was an expert with numbers, he got promoted to working with the farm’s owner, going over his expense reports. Robert considered asking Charlie if he’d had a hand in the switch, but thought better of it. If Charlie had, he’d wonder if Robert was mad at him for manipulating things in Robert’s favor. If he hadn’t, he’d feel bad for not having thought of it. Best to leave it a mystery. Robert felt slightly guilty, sitting in the fan-cooled office while Charlie sweated in the field, but whenever he saw him from the window Charlie seemed focused. At peace.

Days slowly became weeks, and Robert stopped mentally tallying the days they had left of their contract. He started to enjoy the quiet rhythm of the farm, the view of the fields and the river beyond from his office, the simplicity of his tasks. Here, life was straightforward, honest. No one was trying to get ahead of anyone else, and there was no cut-throat competition to win a race that could never be won. There was only soil and plants, and a quiet camaraderie between the people who tended it all.

For the first time in his life, Robert didn’t have to worry about what to say, how to be. He just...was. Robert didn’t tell anyone who he’d been, just that he was a run-away from corporate culture, which gained him no small degree of admiration from the young backpackers. He told Charlie that it amused him, but deep down, it pleased him. He’d never been just...accepted before.

It made it easier to just be with Charlie as well. Here on the farm, they didn’t have a past. There was no privacy, so there was no way to share their secrets, mull over their previous lives. There was also no chance for physical intimacy in their shared accommodations, so there was no sexual pressure. It was a relief at first, but the more time went on, the more he let himself feel his attraction to Charlie, the more it became a source of frustration. He took it as a good sign.

The only time they had problems was on Saturday nights. While most of the young backpackers would trek back to Ho Chi Min City for dinner and drinks and clubbing, Eames and Robert stayed behind. Robert wouldn’t have minded a dose of urban culture—he’d been fantasizing about filet mignon and a glass of cabernet again—but he knew Charlie couldn’t afford it. Instead, they stayed back with the farmers...who made their own fun in the off-hours.

“We play _Cắt Tê_ tonight!” One of the younger farmers, Trinh, stuck his head into the bunk-house, brandishing a deck of cards. “Room for two more!”

“I don’t know how to play,” Robert said apologetically, looking up from his copy of _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_. He looked over at Charlie, who had been scribbling in a notebook. “You?”

“I do,” Charlie said slowly. He looked up from his writing and eyed the deck of cards. A strange, pained expression creased his face. “I shouldn’t.”

“Come on, only 200,000 _dong_ buy-in!” Trinh weedled. Robert did the currency conversion easily in his head. It was less than nine American dollars.

Charlie’s fingers rubbed together, hard. A sheen of sweat bloomed across his forehead, and he swallowed hard. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cards, and he bit his bottom lip. Robert had seen that starved look on his face before: on the plane to Mynamar, when he’d placed the bag of fruit in front of him after six months without fresh food. Suddenly, Robert understood.

“Maybe another night,” Robert said easily, sitting up from his bed. “Really, you don’t want this guy at the table. He’ll clean you all out.”

Trinh shrugged and left, and Robert watched as Charlie visibly sagged in relief. He didn’t say anything to Robert, didn’t thank him or acknowledge what had happened. He just tried to return to his writing, though Robert could hear that the scratch of his pen across paper had become slower, erratic.

Robert’s chest tightened, and an odd pang of sympathy lanced his heart. Charlie had been candid with him about his gambling problems, and honestly, Robert had just figured that he’d simply left them all behind when he’d left Eames behind. He hadn’t realized what a hold those old habits would have on Charlie.

Robert took a gamble of his own. He reached into his satchel and dug out the pack of playing cards he’d bought on a whim at the airport in Burma. “Hey,” he called out to Charlie. When Charlie finally turned to look, he held out the deck. “Let’s play something.”

Charlie looked at the deck as if Robert were offering him a poisonous snake. “Robert, I...I don’t want to gamble with you.”

“No bets,” Robert promised. He pulled the deck out and began shuffling it. “We didn’t place bets when we were playing cards in the jungle, did we?”

“No, we didn’t.” Charlie swallowed hard.

Robert realized suddenly that this was the first time he’d mentioned those first days together. It was the first time he’d thought about them without pain, without sadness. He smiled at Charlie. “Come on. We’ll even start easy. Go Fish?”

This time, Charlie’s laugh was genuine, incredulous. “I haven’t played Go Fish since I was a kid!”

“Then it’s the perfect place to start.” He shuffled the cards, watching out of the corner of his eye as Charlie turned his chair around to face Robert on the bed. He dealt Charlie in, and as he took his hand he didn’t miss the way his fingers lingered over the cards, the hesitation before giving in.

“All right then,” Charlie murmured, studying his cards intently. He looked up, and fixed Robert with a deadpan stare that Robert knew he’d perfected in the world’s seediest casinos. “Do you have any fives?”

“Go fish.” Robert tried to keep his face just as neutral, but he couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was ridiculous, but at least Charlie was playing along. Robert knew he couldn’t “fix” Charlie’s gambling addiction, but maybe he could help take the edge off in a safe way.

He was trying to help Charlie now. That was another good sign.

They stayed at the farm for a total of six weeks, and by the end of it, Robert had to admit he was a bit sad to leave. He’d miss the people, the quiet surroundings...the suspended state of his and Charlie’s relationship. Back on the road, it would be just the two of them again, with all of their baggage in tow.

Maybe, though...maybe he didn’t need to carry so much of it anymore.

From Vietnam they went to Malaysia, Charlie promising up one side and down the other that he could afford it. Robert still insisted on using his credit card to buy the plane tickets, and when he told Charlie how much he owed he secretly shaved off twenty percent. Charlie didn’t say anything about it. As they sat side-by-side on the small plane, Robert saw Charlie’s hand rise and fall, as if considering reaching out to Robert’s...then thinking better of it. Robert took a deep, quiet breath and reached over. They sat like that in silence, their hands entwined, until well after the plane took off.

A few nights later, Robert awoke in the dark to the sounds of heavy rain spattering on the roof of their guest house, to the howl of wind whipping against the shutters. Monsoon season had arrived. The roof leaked, and the windows rattled, and Robert watched as a puddle spread from the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. It got closer and closer to Charlie—who still insisted on sleeping on the floor, even after nearly two months of sleeping in a bed on the farm—until finally Charlie cursed under his breath and stood up. He didn’t even glance at the bed as he picked up his pillow and blanket and headed for the room’s one chair, a splintering rattan lounger with threadbare cushions. It wasn’t fit to sit in, let alone sleep on. Robert’s heart wrenched as he realized that Charlie would rather brave the uncomfortable chair than impose on Robert. Enough was enough.

“Charlie,” Robert called softly. When Charlie turned to look at him, Robert moved over on the bed and beckoned for Charlie to join him. “Come on.” Charlie didn’t move. “Please.”

Charlie slept in the bed with Robert after that, but still kept his distance. He slept practically perched on the edge, as if afraid even an inadvertent touch would undo the progress they’d made. But neither of them could control how they slept, and as time went on Robert found himself waking up with a knee pressed against his back, or a hand flopped over his arm. One night, Robert finally pressed himself back into Charlie, and he felt Charlie’s body stiffen for a moment before he relaxed and draped his arm around Robert. He was careful to keep his hips away, Robert noted, and smiled into the darkness.

A few nights later, Robert turned around and faced Charlie. He was still awake, silent, his breathing ragged and quiet. Robert took his hand and pressed it against his own cheek, relishing the warmth, the solidness, the realness of it. Charlie’s thumb brushed it gently, and he looked at Robert with such tenderness that Robert couldn’t help himself anymore. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Charlie’s in a soft kiss. It was brief, light, but enough to make his heart beat like a kettle drum, his entire body thrum electric. When he pulled away, Charlie looked dazed, blissed out. It was the most beautiful expression Robert had ever seen on Charlie’s face—the raw want, the fragile hope, the deep tenderness.

God, how he’d missed this man.

As the days went on the little touches lingered, the kisses stretched out longer. They slept entwined, though with a sheet or a pillow between them to create a buffer. The gulf between them shrank. The more they traveled, the more they saw and shared, the more they had to talk about. The past became more and more distant, and a future together more of a plausible reality than ever.

Until Charlie got sick when they were passing through a village in Malaysia.

His fever rose to 103 at one point, prompting Robert to venture out into the town on his own in search of the local doctor. It was a challenge with his language barrier, and every time someone just shook their head and shrugged Robert’s fear grew more. What if he couldn’t find a doctor? What if Charlie had something horrible, like typhoid or malaria? What if Robert couldn’t help him?

What if he lost Charlie for good?

It was just a bad case of the flu, the old doctor that Robert finally tracked down confirmed. Bed rest, fluids, soup. Watch the fever.

It was a miserable few days. Charlie moaned and sweated through the night, twisting himself violently in the bed sheets. He left the bed only to spend long amounts of time in the bathroom, and on more than one occasion Robert had to go in and pick him up off the tile floor. It was cooler, Charlie whined. Robert did the best he could, stocking up on bottled water, going down the road twice a day to the soup cart, and trying desperately—yet futilely—to get his hands on something stronger than aspirin. It was his turn to sleep on the floor of their room, or at least try to, as every few minutes he’d be started awake by the sound of Charlie moaning or coughing. What made it worse was that Robert knew that his turn would be coming soon.

“I’m sorry.”

Robert’s eyelids pried themselves open in response to Charlie’s whisper. He held his breath, wondering if he’d heard correctly, or if it’d just been another moan.

“Robert, I’m so sorry!” It was followed by a dry sob.

Robert sat up, instantly concerned. Charlie couldn’t be dreaming. Neither of them dreamed anymore, not after so much Somnacin. Which meant…

“It’s all right.” Robert crawled up onto the bed. He touched Charlie’s forehead. It was burning hot. Shit.

“I can’t…I can’t make it better! I’m trying, I’m really trying, but…but…” God Charlie was delirious. His eyes were glassy with tears, and he tossed his head against the pillow. “I’m fucking it up right now, I know it, and you’re going to leave me here to die alone in a puddle of my own vomit and it’s what I deserve—”

“Hey, hey…shhhh.” Robert ran a soothing hand over Charlie’s cheek even as he was reaching for the digital thermometer with the other. “I’m not going to leave you like this.”

Charlie’s eyes snapped to Robert’s face, his expression so wildly hopeful that it shattered Robert’s heart. It was only then that Robert saw just how hard this had all been for Charlie, the strain of trying to please Robert, give him space, never knowing if he was going to accidentally stumble and drive Robert away for good.

Robert slid the thermometer into Charlie’s mouth. He held his breath as he watched the numbers climb higher and higher and higher—

104.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He picked up the phone for the guest house and called the front desk. He needed them to call a taxi. Yes, he knew what time it was. No, he didn’t care that the only driver in the village was asleep. Yes, he would pay double. Triple. He hung up and began packing their bags. It was time to find a hospital.

“Why…why are you packing?” Charlie asked, his tone edging on panic. “Oh God oh God you’re leaving—”

I’m not going to leave you ever,” Robert said vehemently, returning to Charlie’s side. He hid his fear with a smile as he palmed Charlie’s cheek. “We just need a change of scenery, that’s all.”

“I need a hospital, don’t I?” Charlie whispered with surprising clarity.

Robert nodded, swallowing hard. “Just to be safe.”

Charlie’s gaze darted around the room until he saw his bag. “Bring it here.”

“Charlie, it’s okay, I can pack it—”

“Please, before I pass out.”

Robert hurried to comply. He brought the bag to Charlie, who was struggling to sit up. He helped him the rest of the way, and he didn’t miss how deeply Charlie struggled to stay upright. He managed to unzip the main compartment before leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes for a moment. Then, he rallied, and dug out all the clothes Robert had just packed.

“Hey!” Robert couldn’t hide his annoyance. “I’m trying to get us out of here!”

“I can’t,” Charlie murmured, sagging back again. “You need to open this.”

Robert looked at the empty bag in confusion. “There’s nothing there.”

“Feel along the bottom.”

Robert did as he was told, confusion growing as he found nothing. This must be another fever-dream of Charlie’s—no, wait. There. A small zipper under a flap. Robert yanked it open to reveal a small, secret pocket, holding four passports from as many different countries.

“Use George Wilson,” Charlie gasped. “It’s what I always use if I have to go to an actual hospital.”

Robert nodded and pocketed the passport. As he went to zip up the pocket, though, a glint of gold caught his eye. Curious, Robert pulled it out. It was a small lapel pin of a golden pinwheel. Robert’s heart stopped.

“No…” Charlie whispered when he saw what Robert was holding. “No, not yet. You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

Robert touched the blade, and was amazed when the pinwheel spun freely. It was a marvelous little piece of work. He looked at Charlie, who was suddenly blurry.

“You got this for me, didn’t you?”

Charlie closed his eyes. “It was supposed to be for later. Once…once things were better. Once…once I’d made it right. I wasn’t trying to buy your trust, I swear I swear I swear—”

Robert let out a soft, strangled sob, and he clenched the pin in his hand.

Enough was enough.

“I forgive you, Charles. It’s been made right, OK? You don’t owe me anything anymore.”

Charlie’s eyes opened, and even through the haze of illness Robert could see the brilliance, the utter disbelief. “You really mean it?”

“I do. I really do.” Robert swiped at his cheek with the heel of his free hand, and let out a short, desperate laugh. “So, I need you to get better, all right? So we can get back to actually living again.”

Charlie slowly sat up, and put his hand over Robert’s, capturing the pin between their hands. The smile he gave Robert was weak, but it mirrored the enormity of hope that Robert suddenly felt.

“All right then, Robby. I’ll get better for you.”

Then Charlie passed out.

Robert had to pay the cab driver more than triple to get him to help him carry Charlie down to the car. The whole bumpy, terrifying two-hour ride to the nearest hospital, Robert kept Charlie’s head in his lap, stroking his burning cheek with trembling fingers. He couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not when he’d finally found what he’d been looking for all along…

The strength to truly forgive.

It wasn’t the flu. Or malaria. Or typhoid. It had been a terrible case of food poisoning. Charlie—or rather, George Wilson—needed a heavy course of antibiotics and a constant stream of electrolytes to rehydrate. Robert didn’t leave his side through any of it.

Three days later, he woke up to the feel of a hand gently brushing through his hair. He opened his eyes and shifted, wincing as he realized he’d fallen asleep with his head laid across his crossed arms, leaning forward from his chair onto the bed. He groaned as his neck protested, and the hand instantly disappeared. Robert looked up to see Charlie giving him an apologetic look.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He looked uncertain. Better, definitely, but disoriented.

“It’s all right,” Robert said. He reached for Charlie’s hand, and smiled to see the flutter of surprise cross his face. “We’re good, remember?”

“I…I thought I dreamed all that,” Charlie said quietly. He squeezed Robert’s hand, tentatively, as if afraid that if he was too rough it would crumble in his grip.

“I thought you didn’t dream anymore,” Robert said.

“I did too. Fucking fever changed that all right. Can’t remember the last time I’ve been that sick.” Charlie shuddered. He looked at Robert with deep gratitude, a new assurance in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Robert wasn’t sure exactly what Charlie was thanking him for—for taking care of him while he was sick…or forgiving him. Maybe a little of both.

“You’re welcome, Charlie,” Robert said softly.

“Now what?”

“Now? We start over.”


	20. {Arthur} Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Secrets were just part of Arthur’s trade. What was one more kept..._

_ One Year Later _

“Your mail, Mr. Anderson.” 

Arthur waved away the clerk with an absent-minded thanks, not even looking up from his laptop. He was  _ this  _ close to completing the report on the Fischer Method for the Department of Defense and he didn’t want to break his flow.

He finished his sentence with a flourish, and leaned back in his chair to enjoy the panoramic view of the Golden Gate Bridge outside his office window. It was a gorgeous, clear day. 

His email pinged with another message from Lillian at the Yume satellite office in Bangkok. She’d done well heading the facilities there, and it’d been her guidance that had finally helped Yume crack the code to the Fischer Method.

Arthur picked up his mail and was about to toss the whole stack into his “Later” pile when a bright, rectangular postcard caught his eye. Curious, he pulled it out of the stack of otherwise uniform white envelopes. It was a lovely picture of a sunset over a tropical lagoon, the beauty marred with the words “Greetings from Bali” in a hideous font. He turned it over. There was no message. Only his name and business address, neatly written in handwriting that Arthur recognized from the hundreds of pages of handwritten notes left over in Pinwheel’s Bangkok office. 

Arthur smiled to himself. Robert Fischer’s mysterious disappearance following his selling of Yume had been remarked upon for a while in the society pages, but only in that passing way that assumed the “failed prince” was off licking his wounds in Malta or Monaco or some other playboy destination. No one had connected it with the escape of Charles “Eames” Raymond—especially when his body had been found on a beach not far from Pattaya. No one kept looking for a dead man, now, did they?

Arthur was about to put the postcard down when a detail caught his eye. Huh. The stamp wasn’t Indonesian. It’d been canceled from Bangladesh.

Now that…that was a move that was all Eames.

Arthur studied the card for a long moment, then ran it through the shredder by his desk. He couldn’t be too careful, not with Saito’s suspicions still on him. “Body” or no, Saito was no fool, and if he knew both Eames and Robert were still out there with the knowledge to bring him down, he’d spare no effort to track them down.

Arthur would make sure Saito never found out the truth. Secrets were just part of Arthur’s trade. What was one more kept, especially if it meant an old friend got to live in relative peace and happiness…and Arthur got to sleep with a clear conscience?

He might be on this side of the desk now, but Arthur still had a soul. 

Feeling remarkably light, Arthur turned back to his computer and got back to work.

For once, everything had fallen into place.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Marlboro Reds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6418006) by [motetus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/pseuds/motetus)




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